


Techs From Last Night

by ArtemisClydeFrogge



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Augmentation, Bonding, Caretaking, Cyberpunk, Demisexuality, Detox, Detoxing, Drug Withdrawal, First Meetings, Found Family, Freckles, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mood Swings, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Past Drug Use, Scars, Sickness, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Techie has a name, Techienician, Withdrawal, background rey/poe, kylux au, spoiler: eventual finn/rey, spoiler: techie goes through name changes, techsfromlastnight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisClydeFrogge/pseuds/ArtemisClydeFrogge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt just wanted to do his job and go home. That. Was not going to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know man, this fandom has like, ten people in it and I want to shower them with content. Hope they like it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day of the rest of their life.

He's working in an alley, on a Tuesday, on the south side of the building. It's a First Order Aerospace annex, one of the office towers that house the creative minds of hundreds of engineers. It's midday, unremarkable, and he is in a foul mood. This is the fourth, maybe fifth time he's been down in this grubby alleyway in the last month. They short the circuits, running their experiments, and all three of his requisition reports, asking for the new wiring that would solve the problem, have gone unanswered.

He's banging on the lid of one of the panels, in the little alcove in which he barely fits, cussing a blue streak because if they would _just_ – _give him_ – the _fucking parts_ –

There's a shamble of sound toward the far end of the alley, where it terminates into an L-shape lined with garbage bins. The sound resolves itself into the appearance of a grubby street urchin, knocking into another bin in his haste to round the corner. The urchin runs toward him, limping somewhat, breathing in ragged half-breaths. “H-Help, _please_ \- um, Matt.”

“What?” Matt groused, letting his arm drop to the side. The distraction meant that feeling had started to return to his hand, and it was throbbing now.

“ _Please_ ,” the urchin repeated, coming closer. He glanced back the way he came, biting the side of his lower lip so hard it went white. “They're coming, please help me-”

“You know my-?” Matt started but then stopped. His magnetic name tag was still on. He had to wear it when inside any of the annexes. “Get lost, man, I'm working.”

Matt turned back to the panel he'd been fighting, but before he could grab another plug or wire the urchin grasped at his elbow, pulling the fabric of his jumpsuit tight around his bicep. “What the _fuck_ , man-!”

He stops himself. The urchin isn't that much shorter than him, though he's aborting his height with his crouched shoulders and tense back; his hair is that uncommon, blowsy red that Matt only sees occasionally, but what is _exceptional_ , what stops him from jerking his elbow out of the urchin's shaking grasp, is his _eyes._

They're blue- incomprehensibly blue. There's a part of his mind that recognizes the sound of voices, distant, yelling. But the forefront of his thoughts is sidelined by the depth and scope of the ocean blue staring up at him. Pleading. The urchin hasn't let go of his sleeve, and the blood is rushing back to the dent his teeth left in his lip. His eyes are- they're Augments. The yelling is getting closer, loud.

“I'll do anything, please. _Please_ ,” the redhead whispered, and then the most incredible thing happens. At the corners of his impossibly blue eyes, where there's an inflamed cast to his sallow features, twin bands of wetness begin filling at his waterline. “ _Please.”_

“You can cry with those things?” he breathes, in awe. Another shout down the alleyway; a whimper from the urchin – something about its tremor and sniffle involuntary, and desperate.

Matt grabs the urchin, first by the elbow, then the shoulder and back, and shoves him into the alcove, where the electrical panels are still humming and waiting for further repairs. He slides his employee key-card through the lock and the thin door slides into place, scant millimeters from the urchin's nose.

They hadn't broken eye contact until that moment, and when it was cut away, Matt felt a thrill of lightning cross his spine. He took one deep breath and turned himself to the tool cart he had wheeled outside, what seemed a lifetime ago, before the artificial tide of some stranger's eyes washed over him.

A brawl-faced thug came barreling up to him, several inches below his line of sight, but not short on muscle. “You see an Aug run through here? Red hair, yellow shirt?”

“Red hair, yeah,” Matt grumbled, weighing for a moment, the risk of concealing this strange little fugitive. He shrugged, digging through a tool kit for the thinnest of his copper wires, “Didn't know he was an Aug.”

The thug, two more of his type closing up rank beside him, growled low, a menacing sound that was both practiced and natural. “Which way did he go? And I don't think I need to tell you the value of your honesty.”

“Fuck, man, I'm just working here,” Matt threw down the pliers- he could wind the copper into a coil in a moment. This situation was go big, or go home. He could out-crazy this grunt. “Assholes on the fifteenth floor plugging in all their fancy toys, I'm down here paid on the worst contract this side of the Republic, and now I got some gang crawling up my ass on a fucking Tuesday–!”

The thug took a step forward, one arm raising- but Matt gestured first, in a wide arc, “He went _that_ way.”

The men were gone as abruptly as they had arrived, but Matt waited. He'd sent them in the direction that was generally opposite of the direction he'd be taking home. After he was sure, he opened the panel; the urchin the gang had been so fervently pursuing spilled into his arms, hands still raised from being stowed with no warning. Their prey was gasping, gulping in the fresh air, and shaking as Matt righted him; his incredible eyes were still wet, pale lashes stiff with salt.

“You- I thought for a moment- you _saved_ me...”

Matt tore his gaze away and grabbed the copper back up. “You have a place to be?”

The Aug tucked himself against the wall beside the panel, scuffing his palms over his eyelids. A streak of rust-colored wet drew down the side of his nose. He kept rubbing. Looking back and forward to each side of the alley. “Just... where I used to be.”

How could his voice be so small- how could he be so stupid?

“You didn't plan this out at all, did you?” Matt grimaced, irritation blooming under his jaw, where the tightness began. The Aug shook his head, red hair like a rat's nest of grease and straw. “Fuck.”

Matt took five seconds to breathe before starting to push the tool cart toward the restricted access door that led to the alley. The Aug had mostly caught his breath, but looked exactly as lost as his circumstances would have suggested. Matt looked back, rolling his hand in an exaggerated beckon. “Well, come on. I have a spare coverall in my Kellowna.”

“You have a scooter?”

Matt stopped, glared. “So?”

“Nothing, no, I'm sorry,” the urchin piped, voice wavering and low. He crept close behind, still keeping an eye on the mouth of the alleyway. Matt huffed, held the door open – this was _not_ how he wanted his day to go. This Aug was going to get him killed.

Worst fucking Tuesday ever.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has to write another requisition form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not creative.

Matt counted three opportunities the urchin may have taken to murder his rescuer.

He had seen, back when his television still worked, plenty of reports of unwitting good samaritans taken in by pretty faces and well-executed farces. A lot of murder, some rape. Sprinkles of devastating mutilation and horrors too bleak to be fiction, too sad to be fact. And Matt had turned his back on this stranger, already, _three times_

So far, so good, apparently.

The urchin shuffled after him while he checked the watch on his hand three, then four, times. His spare coverall was only slightly too long on the man, but baggy at every bend in the fabric. The shoulders especially gave the redhead a clownish appearance, followed by the way the urchin tugged perpetually at the cuffs that fell past his wrists.

They had been together for the better part of an hour, now, most of it in silence. And so far, Matt hadn't been murdered. So far. So good. What now?  
  
He finished the last of his new requisition form, counting that, with his back and neck bent over the little desk in the back-end of the building's office, he was presenting a fourth opportunity for his impending execution. Still, the Aug had only tucked himself away again, against the wall, and waited quietly while occasionally fidgeting with the cuffs on Matt's loaned suit. It was almost companionable.

Matt sat back in the too-small swivel chair and regarded the Aug; the waif met his gaze for a split moment, then dropped his chin. His dirty hair fell forward, a curtain that was in desperate need of trimming. Matt took a deep breath, unsettled for reasons he couldn't quite grasp. “I did everything that I can do here today. I'm taking... a _huge_ risk, man. I could take you to a shelter, but..."

The Aug glanced up, his eyebrows stuttering between expressions while his shoulders hitched up to his ears.

Matt went on, his fingers spread across his temple, arresting his headache for the time being, “But they'll find you and kill you.”

Abrupt little nods, the sharp intake of breath.

“All right. Okay. Shit.”

“M- _hm,_ ” the Aug started before clearing his throat, the sound strained and unattractive, “I'm sorry."

“What's your name?” Matt deflected, not ready to hear what _I'm sorry_ could mean.

The redhead startled, making sharp and sudden eye contact. His eyes were still so blue, so arresting, that Matt couldn't look away. Couldn't do anything but stare. They were like sapphires; they must be computers, he thought, they must serve some purpose or why would they be rimmed in so much red, just to replace plain old human eyes?

“I don't... really remember. They just called me the technician. The techie.”

This statement was as good as a novel, compared to what came before, but each word was a garden path into sequels that would surely go unwritten. More questions than could ever really be answered. More, even, than could be asked. Matt grimaced, again, and stood. He groaned, hands going to his hips in a giant's parody of resignation. “God have mercy, the stray doesn't have a name. Of course.”

After all, everyone knew not to name a stray, lest they become attached.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding off into the sunset doesn't end up feeling very cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all wanted to read about literally every step from point A to point B, cause that seems to be what's happening.

Before they leave the building, Matt paws his way through the lost and found bin. There are a couple of hair ties and hats- one of which, a green beanie, Matt picks out almost _because_ it will clash so horribly with the tech's hair. He also finds a watch, a sweater that looks like it will fit the redhead at least basically, and a comb that is only missing three teeth.

“Pull your hair back and put this on. And tie this around your waist.”

The Aug does as he's told without pause, though his attempt at putting up his hair is abysmal, at best. There are strands still hanging around his cheeks, one thin lock sticks to his forehead- the beanie on top of it all makes him look like a failing drug dealer. But the way he almost smiles when he's done makes Matt find it almost endearing.

They head out to the back lot of the tower, the sun is already setting and the pavement is violet hued beneath their feet. The Kellowna is farther back than the rest of the cars and bikes in the lot; the only other vehicle near the scooter is a two-door jalopy that Matt has seen the janitor exiting on occasion. If Matt has the worst contract on this side of the republic, than the janitor has the worst at-will. There's just no appreciation for the people that keep things running.

He swaps his helmet out for his lunchbox, handing the gunmetal gray, visor-less dome to the shorter man. Absently, he locks the pod that sits on the rear of the Kellowna. There will be enough room for them both. It's a two-seater. Still, Matt regards the trip ahead of them with clearly outlined misgiving.

“Have you ever ridden on a scooter before?”

“No,” the redhead hums; he looks almost excited. Or, at least, anticipatory. “But I will do my best.”

Matt snorts. “Okay. Sure. There are grooves near the back of your half of the seat that you can hang on to. If you feel like you're going to fall off, you can hang on to me.”

It's this missive that brings the Aug's gaze upward, away from the green and white vehicle they'll be riding. “I- I can?”

“Obviously. I don't want to have to take you to the hospital if you fall,” he moves to the kickstand and rights the scooter as if it weighed nothing, “I feel like if you were going to stab me to death, you would have done it already.”

The Aug's eyes went wide, white all around the azure, and he started as if he'd been electrified, “I wouldn't- I swear I wouldn't!”

His bony hands met in front of his sternum, his arms close. He was pleading, though, leaning forward and curling even more dramatically. Desperate to convey honesty in a relationship only two hours old. Matt regarded him for a long moment, thinking, what if those thugs came back? Would they recognize this man, in this flimsy disguise? And if they did, what would it mean for him- the liar and the one harboring their fugitive. He had already sealed his fate.

“How old are you?” he made himself ask, swinging one long leg over the Kellowna.

The Aug inched closer, easing himself over the seat; he was ginger and trying, as far as Matt could tell, to not overstep the bounds of personal space. On a two-seater. Hilarious. The redhead let his knees close around Matt's hips; Matt could see him in the little rearview mirrors, running his pale fingers along the edge of the seat looking for the grooves.

“I'm. Um. Twenty-six? I'm not sure.”

“I'm twenty-four.” This seemed like important information to disclose, to share. They were in this together now. This contract was, for all intents and purposes, signed and sealed. As soon as Matt pushed him in the electrical alcove, possibly before, possibly the moment someone plugged in one too many machines on the fifteenth floor – as soon as the sun had risen on the Aug's escape attempt, they had been bound for one another. It was the only explanation. The energy of the universe flowed through it all. If it meant death, then that would come when it wanted. Matt took a deep breath.

“How does that helmet fit?”

“...A little tight, with the hat.”

“It's a short ride.”

“Okay,” the Aug mumbled, slipping his thin arms around Matt's ribs. Signed, sealed, delivered.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of scooter rides and old apartments. And paranoia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't mind the tense changes, I sure as hell am not apparently

The ride is uneventful. Matt almost enjoys the quiet monotony of the drive, feeling the low shift of gears between his legs, and the wind blowing his stupid hair back. He notices a hint of lag from the wheels, with the added weight, but it doesn't change much. The performance is fine. He engine isn't too loud. Traffic is reasonably full, plenty of other commuters heading home on a similar schedule; to their wives and husbands and children and pets.

It brings on a scowl that Matt has no control over.

What do they know, anyway. Who needs a wife.

He takes a deep breath while they're paused at a red light; his right leg extended to balance the bike. His charge has his arms tight around Matt's ribs, and his knees are clamped down around Matt's hips, too. This has been the trend every time they stop, while the bike is tilted, or when they round a steep corner. The Aug had not been lying about not having ridden before. His fear is obvious.

It's a little nice, though, to be clung to. It makes Matt feel rather empowered and tough. Tough enough to take on those thugs, even. Though they might break his glasses. An errant whim brings his right hand up and onto the clasped hands at his sternum. They're shaking, very slightly, but noticeably. He squeezes, feeling uncharacteristically supportive. It must be cruising on the scooter, feeling temporarily light.

“You doing okay?” he turns his chin only somewhat, casting his voice to where the mirrors can see the curve of his own helmet against his back, of that stray red hair, at rest. There is a tentative nod, that he feels more than sees, against his back. The hands at his chest go slightly slack, relaxing, but as soon as he has the green light, he's squeezed again.

It's probably oxytocin. It's something.

Matt grins, forgetting- for the time being- that he was supposed to be in a bad mood. Had had a bad day at work. Wasn't appreciated. Wasn't fulfilled. Drove a second hand scooter and lived in a shoddy apartment complex. This stupid guy, though, clinging to him. This stray was relying on him.

Well.

At least for now. He'd have to leave eventually.

Right? But where would he go? He probably wasn't important to anyone but that gang- and who knew what the gang wanted him for. What they had done to him. Witness protection wasn't for homeless strays with beautiful mechanical eyes. Matt signaled into the right lane and pulled over with a little more horsepower than strictly necessary. Thrilling at the squeeze that closed over his ribs, he made his way to the apartment complex he had been loosely calling home for the last three years.

It was a large, relatively unimposing key-in, converted from a sprawling motel that, years ago, was rented for long-stay business professionals. The lobby still had the original fountain, though it was frequently broken. The outside of the building had a muddy red face, with small balconies running the front wall. Most of the tenants used them for rusty bicycles, sad little plants that didn't love the cold winters, and the occasional wind chime. Nothing to write home about. And Matt hadn't.

He parked in his little numbered spot, settling the scooter on its squeaky kickstand; the techie behind him immediately withdrew his hands. It really wasn't cold, not yet, but he shivered. His long legs were twice as difficult to maneuver over the body of the bike with a second passenger still seated. The Aug had, as soon as Matt started moving, gone rigid with his fingers jammed in the grooves beneath his seat. His eyes were focused down. Matt got it. He held out his hand, “Here.”

The redhead looked up, gave a nervous little laugh, and put his hand in Matt's. He slid awkwardly from the Kellowna, his free hand wheeling in the air as if it would stabilize him somehow. Matt saw that his legs were actually shaking- possibly from having them held in rigor for twenty minutes.

Possibly, anything else. Who knew.

The Aug pulled the helmet free and instantly curled his shoulders in, glancing around the lot- searching

“It should be okay. This area isn't amazing or anything, but we don't get much gang activity. Too many cameras.”

“Oh- oh. Um, yes. Okay,” the Aug handed him the helmet and looked up at the carport roof that shaded over them. It was getting darker. Matt popped the lock on the storage pod and pulled out his canvas lunch box, replacing the helmet. When he turned back, he saw the stray pulling the ugly green beanie down over his ears. More of his hair had become displaced, but for the first time, Matt noticed his neck. Pale, like the rest of him, a couple of freckles, and a tattoo.

“Is that...?” he started, beckoning for the Aug to follow him toward the front door. There was a side door closer, but he wanted the other to see the fountain, with its lion head.

“Yeah, it's her symbol. It... hurt a lot. Not as much as,” he made a wide, circular gesture around his face, then redirected his gaze to his feet. There was another tattoo, on the Aug's forehead, that had caught Matt's attention, though it was now covered by the hat. “Male,” jagged and old, set haphazardly over the tech's left eyebrow. That was self-explanatory enough. It had probably hurt, too. But, again, not as much as – the eyes.

Matt held the door open, shoving his keycard in one pocket. It was around dinner time, and the manager's desk, converted from its days as a motel check-in counter, was clear. Good. Matt didn't _not_ get on with the super, but the woman was so _nosy._ His guest took two small steps into the lobby, hands raising up to his chest, as if in second nature. The fountain was in rare spirits, gurgling low in its base and spitting water almost correctly.

“Wow,” the redhead whispered, watching it with his eyes wide; it was as though he were taking pictures. Keeping some good memory safe, hidden away, like a gift he could re-open when feeling down. Not that Matt would know anything about that. His family didn't do presents. They barely did pictures. “You get to live here.”

Matt shrugged, heading for the elevator, “Yeah. It's okay. This is First Order company housing, they have a contract with the building owners.”

The Aug followed him, close on his heels, shuffling and occasionally looking back toward the front doors. Matt hit the button for the third floor; under normal circumstances, he took the stairs, but he thought the other man's legs might still be a bit rubbery. He felt magnanimous. The elevator beeped and the Aug said nothing; Matt coughed. “You need a keycard from the company to get in. And if you lose it, they deactivate it and issue you a new one. So. You know. It's hard to get in if you're not supposed to be here."

“I see,” the Aug mumbled, though he visibly relaxed, his shoulders creeping down almost an entire inch. He looked up at Matt suddenly, face red. “Thank you. Thank you so much for bringing me here.”

Matt fought the urge to shrug again, fought the desire to stare. This was too surreal. “Yeah,” he said eventually, leading them into the elevator once it settled open. Just as the door began to slide shut, the manager emerged from her apartment; the door was directly across, and though the fountain edged in between, there was an unbroken line of sight into the elevator.

But-

-the doors met. Matt released the breath that had caught on his windpipe and looked to the Aug. He wasn't supposed to have long-term guests. No one was. They had to be registered with First Order Aerospace, and they had to be domestic partners or family. Immediate or distant, but related provably by blood. Maz knew Matt lived alone, but if she thought there was someone living with him...

Even if the Aug had an ID, had a _name_ , he wasn't an employee of FOA, and he sure as hell wasn't Matt's partner or family. He wasn't even sure what the punishment for breaching the building contract. Only now did the risk of what he was doing hit Matt fully. The risk of being murdered had come and gone, though he suspected the gang might still have motive to track him and find their stolen property-

-That was what the Aug was, wasn't he? Stolen property; and he was the thief. And what if it was all a ruse to get his keycard? To get into the apartments, or his work?

The doors beeped open on the third floor. Matt moved, brisk, through the landing and down an adjacent hall. His apartment was the third down, and his keycard worked the same on its door. His heart rate was back up as the eager, paranoid part of his brain took off running. The Aug followed him in, shut the door and locked it without being prompted. He seemed to be waiting further instruction, but Matt could feel the tension headache he'd been fighting three hours ago crack down his spine like an old egg.

Death. Losing his home. And he might yet be the victim of a long con. How could he have been so cavalier?

“The television is broken, so don't bother with it. If you want to steal anything, that's fine I guess, but lock the door behind you,” he grumbled, making his way straight to the bedroom. He almost told the Aug that he could sleep on the couch. But what would the point in that be? The couch was right there, with the glaring gold and purple quilt his late grandmother had left him, a bygone relic of self-produced goods. Her own grandmother had taught her, long ago.

The other man would figure it out, before or after he finally pulled that knife on his rescuer.

Matt locked himself in the bedroom before he could see more of the tech's unerringly open face, of his awful, beautiful eyes and all they had made him do.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hasn't even been twenty-four hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I write is terrible because I do all my writing on the cusp of exhaustion.

The alarm went off promptly at seven the next morning, jarring Matt out of a half-finished dream which evaporated almost instantly- between his eyes opening and his hand tapping the clock _._ There was a quiet, residual ache in his neck. His glasses were smudged.

Where was the nearest cleaning cloth? In his coveralls- or the kitchen drawer with all the other technically useful but homeless gadgets?

He creaked up and out of the bed, muttering curses under his breath. He hated the morning.

In ten years he couldn't remember any nice thing that had happened before eleven in the morning. Before noon. But, the night wasn't any better. The evenings were tepid, at best. Everything had been blending together for a long time now- but rent had to be paid.

There was something else, too, but as he rubbed his neck and shuffled to the door, but what-

He opened the bedroom door.

-there was a man in his apartment.

Whatever he had been dreaming of flit like an ember behind his eyes, like a memory, then vanished.

“Oh,” he said, dumbstruck; the Aug had bolted upward and almost off the couch when the door had swung out, the hinges whining slightly in forewarning. “Hey.”

Matt moved slowly into the room, the four life-altering hours from yesterday snapping through his mind's eye like photographs, still and almost grainy. He needed coffee. His feet moved on a kind of enforced muscle memory, in spite of the surprise that was another human being in his home. First the coffee maker knocked to 'on,' then the restroom for morning ablutions. He watched the Aug watching him as he moved. For a moment, he wished he had a worn a shirt.

His guest had definitely slept on the couch for at least part of the night; the sweater was rolled into a ball to one end and his hair was matted on one side. The skin around his eyes was raw. There could have been several reasons for that, and none of them were on the list of things Matt was going to consider this early in the day. He sat down on the couch, farthest from where the Aug was in a stiff half crouch, and tossed the sweater onto the dingy little coffee table.

“You can have some. I make too much. There's milk and sugar, but I don't have creamer.”

The Aug sank more fully down on to the pale brown couch, hands clasping between his knees. He was still wearing the spare coverall; that was fine. Matt had four, total.

“Don't let me forget to bring another uniform with me. Just in case,” Matt yawned and rubbed his eyes with minimal displacement of his glasses.

“Thank you,” came a little whisper from the couch's other end; the Aug pulled his legs up, sinking more deeply into the back of Matt's seven-year old couch. It needed to be replaced. Or burned. “I... I woke up a few times. I thought I was back there, but...”

Matt felt it happening- that _pull_ that had started this whole adventure in good, if excessive, samaritanism. The way the Aug had brought his arms down in front of his stomach when he'd woken- he'd been sleeping. He had been sleeping and waking up put him immediately on the defensive, but _now_. Now his blue eyes are gazing across the distance between them, the hesitant trust shining in his false retinas and making Matt feel as though he were un-moored from the earth. Floating somehow away from the dark press and grind of daily life. He found the willpower to look away, leaning into the steam of his coffee and breathing as evenly as he could his heart had caught so suddenly in his throat.

“Yeah,” Matt mumbled, wondering how on earth they were going to make this work. Wondering if his suspicion that this was a long con had yet to pass. But if it were- wouldn't it have already? Still. He felt bewitched and it made him wary of how quickly he was ready to relax.

This wasn't right. How had this happened?

He downed the rest of his coffee, though it was too hot and burned on its way down. His tongue sang on its nerve endings. “I gotta get ready for work.”

He felt the Aug's eyes following him as he left the room- calculating? Probably not.

There was getting dressed, making sure he had his badges, his keys. First there was getting to FOA North, the larger of the tech centers in Callaway. Then on to whatever locations, in whatever order, he'd been assigned. If he was lucky, he might have an assignment in the Field Hangar, or, if there was a miracle, an assignment in the Callaway Plant, where the ships were built.

Where the majority of his college education had application.

No such thing as miracles, though. Only the once, only by chance.

“Shit,” he muttered, zipping his suit and checking his face for offensive marks. Not enough beard to shave, either- not really. He double checked his wallet for his cards; in the weirdness of yesterday, he had not prepped a lunch before retiring to bed. It was fine. He hadn't eaten out for lunch since-

Since.

Well.

The Aug was still sitting on his couch, eyes trailing him warily, but with restrained warmth. It made him feel a bit self-conscious. Normally when folk stared at him, he knew exactly why. He was too big for too many spaces, awkward and badly spoken, short-tempered, and covered in moles. He'd never had a dog- never been gazed at so openly. With no trace of menace. Only shy, cautious optimism. Maybe he was the dog; big and dumb and giving everyone around him reason to think he would bite. It was only a matter of time, really.

The pull came at him again, only a gentle tug he had no name for, no familiarity of. Time to go to work, anyhow.

He pulled the door open, but the Aug's voice warbled, unsure, to him, “Your coverall?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he clomped back to the bedroom, then back out, keeping his eyes down and away from the witchcraft that the Aug's eyes cast over him. Fuck, he needed a name. At the door he paused again, trying to find words, “If you leave, you won't be able to get back in. It's your choice what you do. Steal what you like, I guess.”

The stricken look the Aug gave him was worth the cold shower feeling that crashed down the back of neck; he wanted to say more. To take it back. To rub it in. He didn't ask to be a savior. To be a dog.

He didn't ask for the undertow of this stranger's eyes, dragging him under.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from Not Great to Really Not Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much planned I'm breaking it into two parts. My bad.
> 
> Update 09/02, hello darlings, I connected with the originator of the Kee last name which I borrowed for my own Matt, and you should very much go visit AtlinMerrick to shower them with love and affection. XOXO: [http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/profile]

In all, it had been a decent day. Nothing truly worth complaining about, though he had given himself a small burn from daydreaming; in one hand a tiny, live wire, in his other, a small, disconnected bit of electrical viscera. What he would be doing about the illicit Aug in his apartment for the long term had pulled his thoughts in separate and insoluble directions, and the little burn served as a reminder for the remainder of the day.

He deserved it, if he was going to be honest with himself. Daydreaming was slacking, and if he wasn't going to do his best work, he was never going to be recognized by the desk people and the bosses. And without that happening, he would be stuck doing the low–register jobs for the rest of his life. He didn't know anyone in the company like so many of his former peers, at the university of technology that had sucked up his middle youth, spitting him out on the other side of twenty–one with a degree and no immediate prospects.

Getting a contract with FOA had taken the better part of six months. He had had to sign with a technician's stable as a kind of temp, and had worked tirelessly to earn an independent contract.

Now was not the time to start fucking up.

(Now was not the time to engage in risky behavior, but here he was, back at the root of the problem: the Aug.)

Parking on the farther side of the building, closer to the stairs he usually took, solved the problem of running into Maz, who rarely made upper floor visits and even more rarely used the stairs to get to them. He had his jumpsuit half undone today, the arms tied around his waist. It was getting cooler, but he had been crammed in the tiniest, hottest spaces the last couple hours, and driving the Kellowna in the Autumn air had been incredible. Under one arm, he cradled a very slightly crumpled bag of drive–thru food; hopefully the Aug wasn't picky.

Though why would he be?

Regardless, he would have to do grocery shopping, which was a pain for one person– and now there were two. _Am I going to be able to keep this going? Will I have to use––_

His train of thought stalled as he entered the apartment, tucking his key card in his pocket like he always did; there was something wrong. It was dark throughout the living room, and the kitchen to the side, but there was a mellow shaft of light in the doorway to the bathroom. A silhouette turned slowly to face the entryway. The Aug was hunched, one yellow sleeve rolled to his elbow; the jumpsuit he had borrowed was gone, somewhere out of sight. He gave a little nod, tucking both of his arms against his chest, the fingers of one hand close to his throat.

“I– I didn't– on the carpet,” the redhead rasped, “I got here in time– I mean. On the tile, I–”

Matt took two tentative steps into his apartment, wary. There was a stale, acid smell.

The Aug turned abruptly back around, falling out of view. The sound of retching followed almost immediately. Matt's stomach turned; he dropped the grease–bottomed bag on the kitchen counter and moved with some reluctance into the harsh light of the bathroom.

“Oh, my god, Red,” he muttered. There was vomit in a thin puddle and smear just inside the door, and the jumpsuit was in a similar puddle nearby. The Aug's shoes, a pair of worn–out green slip-ons, were– bizarrely– in the sink. The retching went on for another long, painful moment. Matt hadn't seen a scene like this since his second year in college, when his roommate had rolled in from a frat party and spent the next three hours in a whirlwind of puke and whining. The Aug only took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned against the toilet seat. His hair stuck to his forehead and neck.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he whispered and sniffed, though he didn't look at Matt, only let his head loll against his arm. His rolled sleeve, the right one- sagged. One of his socks was gone. Or had never been there. “I don't wa– wanna die, I j–just–”

“You're not going to die, jesus, man,” Matt skirted around the edge of the mess and crouched a foot away from his strange house guest; another roll of the man's shoulders and he was vomiting again– mostly bile, from what Matt could see. The smell made his stomach turn again, a warning.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“No, no I promise. Don't– don't tell Ma–Ma, please, please I'll be good,” the Aug clenched and unclenched his hands, slowly sliding away from the toilet. His lips were colorless, and there were wet tracks cutting paths down his cheeks; tears again. Remarkable, improbably tears. “I– I don't want any more, I– I can do the work, I promise– shit, I _promise._ ”

Matt leaned out to catch the collar of the Aug's ugly yellow shirt, trying to piece together what he could from the redhead's rambling. His knuckles slipped across the other man's sweaty neck. The skin was clammy, hot. “Any more _what_? What work?”

“Methyl– methylphenidate, you _know_ , fuck– I'll do whatever you want, please–” the Aug shivered and then hauled himself back over the toilet, sputtering around thin, yellow–ish sick. Where had Matt heard this before? It was some kind of prescription thing. Some kind of drug.

It had been just over a day since he had brought the man into his apartment. Long enough for withdrawal to set in.

“You're detoxing,” he said, shock blitzing through him and then rounding out to anger, “You're on _drugs?_ ”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't want to,” the Aug murmured, trying to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, sniffling as he shivered again. The smallest whisper followed, the Aug letting his forehead drip to his folded, sheet-white arm: “I'll be good...”

The anger drained to half tank; Matt stood, saying nothing. He doubted the man was going anywhere, no need to tell him to stay put. His mobile– an old Seed model with a larger screen– rang only twice while he rummaged in a cupboard. Had to be crackers somewhere.

“First Order Community Relations desk, how may I direct your call?” a crisp voice greeted; Matt took a deep breath. He was lucky it was Rey. Taun We was infinitely more formal with him, and far less likely to side with him if his request made waves.

“Rey, it's Matt. Matt Kee.”

“Oh, hi, Matt. What do you need?” her tone went instantly warm, familiar. They had known each other for years.

“I'm calling out from the field tomorrow. They can send me some remote stuff and I can get it done over the weekend, but I can't come in. Out. Out?”

“Sure, you haven't called out in more than a year, I'm sure it won't be a problem. I can forward it to Ms Moth, but they're going to need the reason.”

“It's... complicated,” his rummaging finally produced a sleeve of crackers, and he seemed also to have a bottle of fancy, upgraded water. Probably a gift from Rey, actually. He sighed, “Okay. It's like this. My- friend, um, he's sick.”

“Your... friend. Is sick?”

“I need to take care of him. He's... detoxing. He just showed up and I can't take him to a clinic.”

“Why can't he go to a clinic?” Rey wondered aloud, though Matt could hear the sound of her typing up a brief report for the time off request. It would be filed as an emergency. But, like she had said, he didn't have a history of calling out. And it was almost entirely the truth, what he was describing.

“Like I said, it's complicated. It has to do with his parents, but I doubt Moth is going to, you know, worry about it. Just have them send me any mobile stuff they need checked over and I can work on it. Give Oola a break.”

“You got it, guy,” she chirped, “See you back on Sunday?”

“Yeah, no problem, I'm sure. Um- actually,” he caught her right before she disconnected, “Are you free Saturday afternoon? Or Morning. For a couple hours?”

“Yeah, what do you need?” her tone changed again, brightening to the point of almost palpable luminescence over the line.

“Well, I need help getting groceries. I'm going to need stuff. And, I owe you lunch, probably, right?”

“You don't owe me anything, Matt, you're ridiculous– one second–” The line went cold for a few seconds before she returned, “I've got more calls coming in, but I'd love to hang out. Will your friend be okay for a little bit? Or do you think he might be able to come with?”

“Honestly, I don't think he will. We'll see. But he'll survive a couple hours. Probably.”

“Um. Well that doesn't sound like a hopeful prognosis,” she gave a nervous chuckle, and he could almost see her fidgeting, pushing her hair behind her ears. She had the most beautiful chestnut hair.

“Yeah, it's... bad. But it's going to be okay. Uh. Speaking of which, I have to go. And you have to go, sorry. Yeah. Text me?”

“Sure thing, Matt, I'll be in touch.”

“I appreciate it,” he smiled before closing the connection. Rey was his one good friend in the world, who really wasn't going to leave him in the dust like so many others he had gotten attached to, and been disappointed by. He went back to the bathroom with the drink and the crackers; it was going to be a long weekend.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has officially adopted the worst stray, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent five hours choosing methylphenidate and less than five minutes choosing diacetlymorphine.

“Shhh, just drink this. Slow, there- yeah.” Matt tipped the bottle against the Aug's ashy lower lip and watched the rose-hued water disappear. The Aug's eyes focused and unfocused, unseeing. His skin was wan, hot, and still sweating, though the vomiting had tapered off somewhat. He had eaten and expectorated three separate crackers, and several sips of the enhanced water. In a fit, he had pulled off his other sock, and had alternated between periods of lucidity and periods of absent, horrified, mumblings.

The more Matt heard, the more questions he had; and the more pity he felt. Whatever the gang had done to the urchin had been _bad._ Frustration still bit at his heels, off and on, but its vehemence was muted when he brushed the back of his palm across the Aug's forehead. Muted in view of the way the Aug's hair stuck to his neck, to the way it felt to hold it back, away, while he emptied his stomach for the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth time.

After his sips, the Aug slipped away, resting against the tub; he was become increasingly listless, eyes never quite making contact. He smelled. Everything smelled. The Aug moaned and tried to sit up, but slid in place, damp against the tiles. Matt reached out for him, steadying his shoulders even as the redhead whimpered and wrung his hands into the hem of his shirt. Rather, into the combined edge of two shirts he had layered together, a fact which Matt was surprised had escaped his notice.

“I can't breathe,” the Aug mumbled, “It's so hot... I think all the fans are broken.”

“What?” Matt pushed the crackers in their crumpling sleeve out of the way; the Aug rocked forward to his knees, dragging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “You want this off?”

“I have to fix the fans- I have to- the cords are so tangled... Matt, you can't go back there- mmf-” the redhead became briefly tangled in his shirts, pulling them over his head. Matt stared for the better part of the moment- the Aug had a long, soft torso, the curve of a small belly at his shorts hem. _Freckles._

Freckles and- tiny, thin- short and long- whisper whisker trails of white. Some across his ribs, some near his navel.

Scars.

The Aug appeared at last from his fabric prison and stared, still unseeing, trance-like, at his keeper. “You're too big. You'll get tangled up. It's okay, I'll go... I'll fix it.”

Matt helped to pull the fabric, stiff and damp in turns, away from the Aug's arms. He had begun shivering, his teeth clacking together as he panted. Matt said, “You don't have to fix anything.”

“Ma-Ma will get mad.”

“You don't have to fix anything. It's okay. Everything is okay, Red.” Red, because there was nothing else. Not yet. Except- maybe while he was in this stupor- “Hey. Hey, man.”

The Aug shivered again and seemed to try to focus; he caught Matt's eye for a split second before folding slightly over and holding one arm up to his cheek. “I can do it, I just need- a second-”

“What's your name?” Matt interrupted, quietly, rapt. He held the Aug's limp yellow shirts in a wad on the ground where they sat. The exhaust fan was running, grinding in the ceiling above. A long moment passed, the sound of whirring and clicking and clacking and grinding filling the space between them. The Aug took a long, shuddering breath- and began to cry.

“I'll be- be good-” he clapped one hand over his left inner elbow, clutching the spot protectively. The same tears that still amazed Matt bubbled along the redhead's waterlines and fell, haphazard, to the beat of sobs. “I promise, I promise, I-”

“ _Whoa_ , hold on- I'm sorry, hey-” Matt scooted forward on his knees, got close enough to lay his hands on the pale, shaking shoulders, and all their myriad wonderful freckles- and gently _shook_. “Hey, shhhh, hey. C'mon, you gotta stop, the neighbors are going to call Maz. C'mon. Shit. Shit, you're on _fire_.”

The Aug twitched and shivered under Matt's hands, shoulders almost entirely covered by the breadth of his palms, gazed and sniffed, and then hiccuped, “The f-fans are bro-broken.”

“God _dammit_ ,” the blonde hissed, bringing his right hand up to feel the Aug's forehead. It was hotter than it had been an hour ago, probably the hottest it had been since his first brush with the Aug's on-again off-again catalepsy. He rocked up to get around him, turning on the faucet and then the shower head; it had to be cool, but not cold. Not even really cool; lukewarm. The coolest warm could be. As Matt leaned over him, the Aug leaned against his hip, crying quietly and sniffling loudly. Every time drops of water flecked across his back ( _freckles_ ), he flinched, still shivering shaking shuddering. It might have been Matt's imagination, or the growing sense of solicitude, of warmth, for the Aug's well-being, or it may have been a matter of fact: The Aug's fever was reaching its pitch.

In terms of a detox, Matt wasn't sure if this was the end, or only the beginning.

When he was satisfied with the temperature, Matt gently hauled his charge up and over the rim of the bathtub, which immediately backfired. Like the worst kind of cat, the Aug yowled and twisted in the water, sputtering and gasping.

On the bright side, he was no longer truly crying.

At least, Matt thought it might be a bright side.

“Fuck! God dammit, _stop_ ,” he growled, catching the other man around his thin chest and pulling him back under the spray. It was warm under his own shoulders as he put one foot in the tub. The Aug shouted, wordless, and contorted in between Matt's hands. He was cawing the same litany of pleas and desperate promises as had been common to his waking fever dreams, though he sounded at once jolted and more lost than ever. His teeth _chattered_. Matt gave up and sat in the tub, dragging the Aug down and in front of his folded knees. He could feel the ache in his patellas start immediately, but grit his teeth to ignore it. Clenching his fist and then releasing it, he let his fingers comb the Aug's hair away from his face.

“Cold, it's cold,” the other man whimpered, shaking his head and apologizing again, and then once more.

“It's not,” Matt soothed, smoothing the copper dark hair behind the Aug's ears. “You have a fever, it's bad, but it's going to be okay.”

The Aug shook his head, spread his fingers against the floor of the tub, but said nothing until he glanced up, meeting Matt's gaze with guileless trust, “I'll be good. I don't need it-” he shook his head again but it was lost in a full body shiver. “I don't need it, I promise.”

The blonde waited, watched, then wondered. “The, uh, the methyl-”

“Rids,” the Aug whispered, conspiratorially, holding his arms in front of his sternum, then his stomach, and then his sternum again. “Kiddy cocaine. It's a classic, you know. And they can put you fucking down when they want you down.”

“ _What_?” Matt chased the Aug's gaze but couldn't catch it, couldn't keep it. His frustration percolated down his spine, but he kept his hands on his knees. Now that the Aug was soaked through, he seemed accepting of his waterlogged fate, his shivering much less pronounced. Matt wanted to feel his forehead again. And his shoulders.

“Methylphenidate,” the redhead murmured, the word rolling down his tongue without tripping, just as it had at his first confession. He looked back and forth, though there was nothing to see but the tile of the shower to one side and the dark living room to the other, and then, almost shyly, held his left arm out for Matt's inspection. “Diacetlymorphine. When they want you down.”

There were tiny pinpricks of red and healed-white along the bright blue lines of the Aug's chelidon.

Track marks.

Matt lifted his hands to receive the offered arm. “Oh, my god.”

The Aug sniffed, shrugging, before pulling his arm back. “It's okay. I got away once. It was wonderful, he was wonderful. Strong and handsome and kind and he helped me.”

Jealousy bristled down Matt's neck with surprising aggression, but he breathed around it, defensive. There was no need for that. Never had been in his life (and yet). The Aug laughed, a nervous, sad sound, and murmured, “It's okay. He said so.”

“Red.”

“I'll help, it's not so bad... I'll fix the computers. I can do it. I don't...”

“Red...”

The Aug, still curled beneath the spray, with water splattering against his blotchy back and splashing onto the ratty bath mat, took a deep breath, the clearest and smoothest in hours. He tucked an errant wave of red hair behind his right ear and then reached, infinitely gentle, to rest the back of his hand against Matt's forehead.

“You're so warm,” he murmured, “Are you okay?”

And then, almost gracefully, his eyes shuttered closed and he went limp, melted to the side, listing against the wall and Matt's thigh. His head made the journey cradled by the thick of Matt's palm, though his freckled shoulder might bruise from sheer fragility. “Red?”

The Aug only breathed, occasional and temperate little shivers traveling along his back and arms. Matt again pushed the hair away from the other man's face- it was peaceful. No line between his ruddy brows.

And the back of his hand confirmed the good news: The fever had broken.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World-building leads to more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is this chapter. Who writes eight chapters covering less than thirty-six hours.

The logistics had given him a small measure of trouble; a few minutes spent trying gently to waken the Aug, only to give up, and then another few minutes sitting in the wet of the tub, the water filling to a depth of a quarter inch and resting there. He wasn't sure, but he though it might be entirely possible that someone could drown in a quarter inch of water.

He _was_ sure that his tub shouldn't be slowly filling and emptying even more slowly, while the plug was still hanging from the faucet and in no way functioning as a plug.

He'd have to get draining fluid. Or one of those flexible plastic snakes with the velcro tines.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he said aloud, letting his head tip back. As usual, his mind wandered instead of leading him toward solutions. The lenses of his glasses were splattered with drops of water and getting foggier by the minute with moisture. He pushed them up on top of his head and took a deep breath. The Aug would be fine if he just rolled him over first. On to his back.

Even that proved challenging; the Aug was a complete dead weight, not reacting to or aiding in any way to his own movement. Matt fought to get the Aug's spine lined up in as smooth a motion as possible, but his long, pale arms and folded legs refused to go willingly. Limp and strangely stubborn, it took well over ten minutes to get his passed out guest out of his contortion and into a shape that would not guarantee drowning.

But it was done.

His hair floated like seaweed or kelp, spreading in a halo around his neck and shoulders. His knees were bent together, leaning on the wall, and his left arm was crossed over his belly, limp, while the other arm floated in the current of Matt escaping out from under him. He looked like a painting; a painting someone had done of a sad, soft drug addict who had left the world too early, in desperate need of even one parting kindness. Matt's nostrils flared in sudden fear, but as he stared he saw the Aug's slight chest rise with shallow but steady breath. His eyelids were still- no REM as yet.

That was probably for the best. Matt peeled his shirt off while he dripped on the already over-damp bath rug; trying to wipe his glasses with the tee helped only somewhat. He had leaned over to shut off the water, and waited now for it to drain further. Just in case. Getting the Aug's khaki shorts and underthings off was almost easier than getting him moved, but it was by no means actually easy. He huffed, balling the shorts up with the shirts, then digging the missing sock out from behind the toilet. _How_ had it gotten there. Leaving the Aug nude and exposed felt somewhat cold, so he lay one of his towels across the man's midsection and pelvis.

Everything about him was long and pale, and thin-soft; very obviously he had lived a stationary and underfed existence, and it appeared unlikely he had access to real exercise. Matt felt he could probably break the Aug in half over his knee, if he wanted. But he'd never want to do that, even frustrated with the situation.

As he passed the kitchen, he groaned in dismay: He'd left the quick food on the counter. So much for that. Well- it probably wouldn't kill him or anything, but the fries would be trash. Matt tossed the bag in the fridge with his free hand before opening the washing unit in the closet by the front door. It took another three minutes, but he found the borrowed coverall- kicked beneath the coffee table- and added it to the machine while it was still filling with water. For a moment, he braced his hands against the edge and watched the cold water splash into the basin, lifting under the wad of fabric with steady abandon. He had to get his head on straight- this wasn't going to just _work_. There was no way.

Or, there was, it just seemed so incredibly unlikely.

He stopped the machine before it could start its cycle. Letting the Aug's things soak for a while was probably for the best. Also letting the towel soak which he had used to mop up the Aug's sick. _That_ was a smell that he could do without.

Back in the bathroom, he turned the faucet back on and let the tub fill part of the way. It would be imperfect, but he could at least scruff a layer of filth off of this poor man. Gently, now hoping the Aug _wouldn't_ wake up, he slipped his left hand beneath the redhead's neck and supported the weight that half-floated in the warm water. Shampoo with the right hand, a washcloth. After a bit, it became hypnotic and soothing, time slowing to an indescribable crawl while he dipped his hand in soapy water over and over and over to somewhat rinse the past, and the suds, off.

The Aug would need to take a proper shower later, but it would be enough for now. As the tub drained, the Aug's head tilted to one side and his jaw tightened before he mumbled, “Where am I?”

“My apartment,” Matt offered, thinking the Aug must still be fairly out of it to make no trouble of his nudity.

“Yes... of course,” the Aug mumbled, even less clearly. He never opened his eyes, but there was a sense of suspicion beneath the confusion, which Matt thought was ironic. The redhead slipped away again, taking one deep breath and curling his hands briefly into little fists.

Matt smiled, though he didn't much notice that he did. He was too focused on figuring how to best dry the man off, how to best dress him again, and what to do from there. Matt wished Rey was already here, he could use the extra hands. At least tomorrow she would come to help, and maybe he could walk her past Maz's apartment. A double, a ruse. He took a deep breath and started scruffing the Aug down; as he did, he daydreamed of the nicer apartments off-world. So much clutter and age had been tearing at the seams of First Earth that is was difficult to tell some days how much longer the infrastructure would hold.

In spite of that, industry raged on and little people lived their lives. The heads of the five remaining continents, and all their constituents, argued and jabbed at each other, and anyone with sense and the money to do it left the planet behind. Matt wanted to do that. First Order was his ticket out of the overrun and dirty cities. The regeneration programs limped along, and maybe there would be some salvageable future planet-side, but with exploration picking up and satellite stations being built more frequently with every passing year, Matt felt the itch to be up in the sky, too. To be among the stars.

His dream, his secret dream, was to work on the exploration cruiser headed by Raymus Antilles, the famous flight general from the last world war. He was going strong in his seventies, and Matt followed his flight schedules, missions, reports, and life events with zeal.

Maybe one day. He sighed, leaned his head against the rim of the tub for one long moment. He hadn't thought of all those things in ages. Had almost forgotten in the blur of the last two- three?- years. And now there was this stray, unconscious in Matt's slow-draining tub: What were his dreams? Did he have any beside surviving? Had he dreamt of some exciting future when he was young?

Matt let his hand drift along the skin that wrapped around the Aug's ribs, his lungs. What had happened to him, that he had gotten caught up in one of Callaway's many, public-secret gang scenes?

Where would dreaming take him now, if he had no where to go?

At least Matt had a plan: He got his arms under the Aug's back and knees and carried him to the bedroom. He was understandably damp, but there was nothing for it. He levered a pair of his own boxer briefs up the other man's legs, watching the black fabric cross over the short, reddish hairs on the Aug's shins. The briefs were only slightly too big, and the grey sweatpants that came next were about the right length, and could be tightened at the drawstring to better fit his more slight frame. Getting the Aug into one of Matt's black undershirts was another adventure in limbs and potato sack physics, but after a short while, he was met with success. He wrapped his somnolent guest in the uppermost blanket and then carried the cocoon back into the living room, back to couch.

After changing and adding his stiff, soapy clothes to the wash, and moving the coffee table out of the way ( _just in case_ , he thought), he collapsed on the floor in front of the couch and stared into the dark of the television screen.

What a day.

Though it pained him to do so, he heaved back up to heat up the unfortunate leftovers from the drive-through. There was no telling how the next day was going to go, or even the coming night, closing in on him even now. The light coming in through the tilted blinds was amber and sweet and rolling quickly toward the end of sunset. Some of the light, Matt saw as he wolfed down his food in sudden, ravenous awareness of his own hunger, spread on the top of the Aug's water-darkened hair.

There was something about that color, or nothing at all. He watched the color bleed and cool, watched the Aug's eyelids for signs of rest, and ate the fries, though they were unpleasant.

He would need his own rest; and in the quiet, he didn't think death was coming after all.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt does his best, growing more attached though he knows he shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Jathis, who requested kisses.

Matt is understandably exhausted come Thursday mid-morning: After falling asleep sitting on the couch, with his head leaning against its back at a terrible angle, he wakes with a groan and a sore neck. The Aug is halfway out of his burrito, moaning, kicking. He's got his arms crossed, is scratching at each opposite bicep.

As Matt blinked the sleep from his tired eyes, reaching for his glasses, folded on the pushed away coffee table, he began to see that the Aug wasn't just scratching- he was tearing. Any more and his arms were going to shred, to bleed.

Matt almost panicked, almost shouted: instead, he moved quickly to the sad-taupe carpet and reached very carefully for the redhead's hands. The next-most moan cut short as the Aug held his eyes tight, resisting the force acting on his wrists; his legs kicked again, tangling in the blanket, impotent. A new moan rose slowly up his throat- his voice sounded like it was traveling across sand paper.

“Oh, my god,” he said softly, turning his head toward the couch. His hair had dried in loose waves around his face and neck, and looked almost pretty. “Oh, god, stop.”

“I'm not doing anything,” still, Matt did not release his hold.

“Let me go,” the Aug mumbled, eyes still shut, “Just let me go. I can't do this.”

Matt stared, his grip going tight around the redhead's shaking hands. “You can go if you really want to. But I'm afraid you'll die if you do.”

“I should die. I shouldn't be here, I'm sorry. I want it so bad, I can't do this.”

“You want to- die?” It didn't make sense. Not after taking such a risk to escape. Not after begging to be saved. This had to be the discomfort of withdrawal, though Matt was generally unfamiliar. The Aug's fingers twitched.

“My bones itch..."

“No they don't,” Matt murmured, getting more and more worried. “How long had they been doping you for?”

Mercy shook his head, eyes still stubbornly shut. “I don't- I don't know, it doesn't matter.”

“A long time?”

“Yes, a long fucking time!” the Aug exploded, suddenly thrashing up and away from Matt's startled relinquishing. He stumbled, almost fell over the arm of the couch, and went for the door. Matt leapt after him, making a desperate grab for the undershirt that was loose around the other man's ribs. He couldn't quite manage, but the Aug tripped over his own feet and fell in a loose shamble behind the couch. Matt rounded on him as he half-crawled and muttered, “They won't kill me, probably, they _need_ me. They'll- they'll fucking give me the stuff and I'll be- be okay-”

Matt hunkered down, straddling the Aug's legs and restraining him as carefully as he could. “God have mercy, shit- hold _still!_ ”

The Aug thrashed again twisting like a weasel and flailing. His eyes were open now, false pupils blown wide. He made a broad swipe with his right hand, but Matt caught it before it made contact. The Aug made a low noise of agitation, biting his lips and struggling; his heels slid in the carpet, but he couldn't worm his way out from under his captor.

“Stop it!” Matt hissed, holding both of the Aug's wrists over his head. He transitioned the hold to his stronger hand- the right- and used the free one to push the Aug's chest into the carpet. “God dammit, you need to stop.”

“Just let me go, then!” the Aug snarled back, more vehement and savage than Matt thought he would ever see of the wilting, shy creature that he had carried home.

“Shh, c'mon, settle down, c'mon...” he said it softly, carefully, letting his grip go slightly more relaxed so that the Aug would hopefully feel less restrained, less trapped. He felt the redhead's legs go limp, felt his hands flutter against the side of his own hand. “You're okay. You're just sick, man.”

The Aug stared at him, seemed to _see_ something; he bit his lower lip again and inhaled. Matt lifted his free hand from the Aug's chest, which was still heaving slightly from over-exertion. “I... I want it. The diacetyl. The methyl. I feel like I'm dying.”

“You're not, you're just _sick_ ,” Matt said, letting go entirely, but hovering still over the Aug's hips. “What do you remember about yesterday?”

The Aug shook his head, the loose curls in his hair rolling across the floor and resting against his shoulders and neck. “Um. Puking. I think.”

“That's all?”

“I don't know,” the Aug's face pinched as though he were on the verge of tears. Matt had guided his arms down to his sides and they were now held tight to his chest, under his own power. “l'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry.”

“I am, though. You don't deserve this,” the Aug took a halting breath inward, avoiding eye contact in his fresh lucidity. “I'm sorry for- for what I did. Freaking out. I don't- don't know w-what came over, over me.”

Matt watched him fight back tears. He didn't seem to care that Matt was still on top of him, that he wasn't wearing his own clothing. The Aug was still, as far as Matt could tell, a bit out of it. There was no telling when he would be himself- though Matt was unsure if he would recognize the Aug when he was 'himself.'

It was all so desperately sad.

“Listen. I think we need to take you to a doctor. You were on uppers and downers for who knows how long. I don't think-” he stopped; the Aug was shaking his head, bringing his arms more tightly together against his chest. He had started to scratch at his neck.

“No, _no_ , they'll f-find me-”

“They won't. I'll be with you. Why would they be there? Look, we'll got to the emergency room on the other side of the river. They won't be there, I promise,” Matt carefully pried the Aug's fingers away from his neck, watching it bloom red from his untrimmed fingernails.

“You shouldn't have to do all this,” the redhead was still shaking his head, his eyes looking past Matt sometimes, and then sometimes resting on the places Matt knew he had moles.

“Hey. Listen. I don't have anything else,” he brought the Aug's left arm down and away, turning it to expose its inward side; the veins running beneath the pale skin were such a saturated blue, they looked almost alien. “You're my responsibility now. I _will_ take care of you.”

Slowly and with surety, guided by impulse and the startling truth in the words that had tumbled from his mouth, he leaned down and pressed his lips against the spray of tiny red and white spots that haunted the Aug's innermost elbow.

He heard the Aug inhale, sharp and surprised, and then the threat of tears that had hovered now came crashing: The redhead choked on a sob, tried to breathe around it, and came up sputtering and hiccuping. He threw both arms around Matt's neck and wept, squeezing tight, as though he would float away if not anchored here, now, with him- his rescuer. Matt felt his own eyes get uncomfortably hot, and he hid the feeling in the side of the Aug's clean red hair. It still smelled like soap, was a little dry. He pushed his big hands beneath the Aug's back and pulled him close, still crouching. The blonde pulled him gently out from between his knees, bundling him as best he could against his chest.

Matt took a deep breath and whispered, “Shhh, hey. You're okay. You're going to be fine. Breathe with me.”

The Aug made several attempts, each time crying harder. Matt kept whispering, casting a spell on the both of them. As the seventh or eighth time passed, the Aug found himself losing momentum; the tears had come from such a deep and dark place it was all he could do to stamp it all down again, but Matt's voice was so immediate, so warm. With a wet sniffle, he ground himself against Matt's collar bones, and breathed, finally  _breathed_.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else is there, if not you? Also, a bit of background on Augments and Augmentation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stg I tried to get them to the hospital in this chapter. They weren't having it??

“You should eat something before we go,” Matt warned, watching the Aug pull his clean, dry clothes back on, over the borrowed underwear and undershirt. He could see the redhead shaking, slightly, through every movement. Standing, hunched, the Aug glanced into the kitchen area before shaking his head.

“I- I don't know if I can.”

“Are you afraid you're gonna puke?” Matt strode into the kitchen, pretending he didn't see how the Aug flinched. “Just have some crackers, at least. Here.”

The blonde pushed a fresh sleeve into his charge's hand, but the Aug only held the crinkling plastic against his chest and stared at his feet. His red hair curled across his forehead, brushed his cheek. He looked practically green, and swayed on his feet before planting his soles more firmly below himself.

“Here, c'mon,” Matt took the sleeve back, pulling the seam open with enough force that several crackers jumped from the package and landed several feet away. “Shit,” he growled. “Well, go on. Have at least a couple. Even one.”

The Aug only stared stupidly at them, breathing through his mouth for two startling breaths before shuddering through his nose. He bit his lip, shook the curl of red away from his eyes and tried to speak, but words wouldn't work their way past his vocal cords- it was as though a force was holding him tight by the throat, like an unwanted dog.

Matt glowered at him, growing more and more frustrated. He felt his hands curl into fists; he had to take two deep breaths before his fingers relaxed, but the irritation remained foggy on his brow. Why was this so difficult? It was only a cracker or two. The man hadn't eaten anything substantial in at least two days, had thrown up the little that Matt had practically hand-fed him. Here he was in obvious need, but he seemed frozen, stubborn, refusing to cooperate even while wobbling on his feet as though he were on the uppermost deck of a ship at sea.

The longer he stood and fumed, the more curled in the Aug became. He was going to punch something if they didn't change directions _soon_.

“Okay, fuck, fine- look. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. I'm trying not to be pissed off, but you're being unreasonable. You aren't going to be able to hold on for the ride if you don't _eat_ something.”

The Aug squeezed the crackers in his thin fingers, nodding in agreement, which somewhat threw Matt off his game. He watched as the redhead licked his lips and tried again to speak; all that came out was a reedy whisper, “I'm scared.”

Matt's breath caught for a moment under his collar bones; of course. “Okay. I'm- sorry. Come over here, sit on the floor.”

He moved to the couch, trying not to stride too quickly in fear of startling the ex-gang member. He was dying to know what role the man had played, and why his eyes had been replaced. Most Augments were in one of three camps: There were first and second wave Augments, sometimes called cyborgs by the new generations. The oldest of these were the men and women needing replacement parts; arms, legs, organs, pieces of their faces, sometimes brains. And, of course, eyes. They were often obvious and utilitarian, more machine than art. Every year there were fewer, as that generation and the one that followed- the group that jumped headlong into alterations and body modification and were often living on the edges of society- died.

There had been a huge movement, a kind of purity wave, that had rejected Augmentation as gauche, unnecessary, and unsightly; for a grubbier kind of citizen. This was usually seen in the class that could afford a lifestyle that made it possible to avoid the health issues that Aug's often sought to solve. Those that still needed 'pieces' sprang for the best, the most subtle, and the most artful, trying still to blend with purist sensibilities.

The third group was the underground group. Gangs, edge walkers, the rejected and strange. The desperate. Matt wasn't sure, but he thought perhaps a fourth wave was gaining momentum, a kind of customer that sought to blend the mechanics of the _necessity_ for new pieces with the art and function originally dreamt of before pieces could be manufactured the way cyberpunk novels of the twentieth century had depicted, had hoped for. It was hard to tell. He was living on the grid, only hearing stories of the black market that everyone knew turned a lucrative profit every year. He still chose to wear glasses when there were multiple surgeries he could opt for- some of them even covered by insurance.

But. He liked his glasses. He liked the way they looked.

They could make fun of him all they wanted.

Sitting in the edge of the couch, he spread his knees wide and indicated the space between. “Here, sit down. I'm gonna braid your hair.”

“My hair?” still that reedy whisper, accompanied by a reflexive impulse: Reaching up and touching his hair. He moved with somewhat less trepidation and sat in front of Matt with his knees up against his chest. “You... know how to braid?”

“I've braided my best friend's hair a lot. It's pretty long,” he pulled the dark copper strands all behind the Aug's back wishing he had thought to grab the comb. Instead of getting up, he ran his fingers through the thick strands, arranging the worst knots out. The Aug sat quietly, not complaining if it hurt. Matt started with the hair near the front of his guest's scalp, gently tugging strand by strand.

“Red,” he said, halfway through the braid; he knew the Aug was feeling more relaxed from the way his knees were no long less than an inch from his chest, and the way he leaned slightly against Matt's left knee. “This is going to make it harder for anyone to recognize you. You're going to wear my coverall again, too, okay?”

The Aug almost nodded, but stopped when he felt the first sign of resistance from Matt's big hands. He whispered, “Okay.”

“So. Please. Just try and eat a little bit.”

The Aug's leg had started jumping slightly and it increased now, but Matt heard the cracker sleeve crinkle, and could see by the redhead's shoulder and arm that he was slowly nibbling a cracker. Then, another. He ate three more while Matt finished the tail of the braid. It reached only a short way past the Aug's shoulders, and there were some loose strands framing his face, but it seemed appropriate and made him look sweet. “Here, hold the end. I need to find a rubber band.”

The redhead sat quietly while Matt unseated himself, moving just as smoothly around him as he had when getting off the Kellowna.

When he returned, the Aug was finishing another cracker, still holding the tail of his hair in one hand. He looked almost more waifish now than when Matt had first laid eyes on him. His knees were knocked together, his right leg still jiggling; he looked lost, like a child abandoned in a playground.

“You're feeling, uh, it?” Matt stooped down in front of him, hesitant to use the word 'jonesing,' thought that was the only word he could really think of. He watched the Aug nod, looking almost embarrassed. “Well. We lucked out, look like she left a hair tie behind.”

Matt tried to hand over the little black elastic but the Aug stared as though he'd never seen such a thing; forcing Matt to lean in close and wind it around the little fox tail at the end of the braid. The Aug touched it and whispered, while he was still close, “What's her name?”

The blonde blinked, swallowed; even in a whisper, the tone was odd, “Rey. We grew up together, pretty much.”

“Do you like her?” the strange tone was still there, almost accusatory, though the Aug's face remained passive, his eyes staring into a middle distance that occurred somewhere through Matt's shoulder.

“Um. She's my best friend. She's great.”

The Aug's eyes flicked momentarily to Matt's, false pupils dilated down to pinpoints of black in that deep ocean in which Matt had first drowned. This close, this little air between them, he felt as though some creature hidden away would emerge, drag him under, and this time- would not let him go. As if in confirmation, the Aug whispered again, “Do you. Like her?”

“I. Used to,” Matt mumbled, no longer in possession of his limbs, of his voice; he only tried, deliberately, to draw the Aug's full gaze again. “In high school.”

“That's a long time,” the Aug said, voice stronger, but flat. He reached for the tail of his braid, touching it, suddenly holding eye contact and not letting go. His leg still shook. He swallowed.

“It was a long time _ago_ ,” Matt corrected, finally, reaching out and tucking some of the short hair he'd missed behind the Aug's pale ear. The shell of it was so delicate and sun-starved it seemed almost translucent, but Matt knew that was his own perception, not real, not truly. The Aug's eyes shuttered closed, freeing him, and he stood, pulling the other man up as he went. “All right, we've gotta get going. The hospital will only get busier as we lose daylight.”

The redhead slipped into the coverall that Matt handed him, taking it with more grace than anything else he had been handed in the last forty-eight hours. He was keeping his eyes down again, trying to hide behind a curtain of hair that wasn't there at the moment, and Matt could tell he was agitated, nervous.

Scared.

He brought the Aug's hands away from his collar bones and into the space between them. “You need help I can't give, man. We're gonna do this together, though, okay? I'm not going to. To leave you. I'm gonna be with you every step of the way.”

The other man dropped his head again, shaking it slightly. He still trembled from lack of calories, protein; or perhaps from fear, or both. Matt couldn't be sure. He was just tired, and determined.

“No, I will. Listen,” Matt squeezed his hands, “Something put me in your path. Something put _you_ in front of me. I have to believe that, because nothing-”

He stopped himself, heart pounding. The Aug peeked up at him, through pale eyelashes; his pupils were larger, darker. It was his eyes that had done all this, and now it wasn't just his eyes: It was his rounded nose and wary mouth, his wavy hair and perfect toes. The way he looked when he slept, finally resting, and even the way he cursed and hollered and panicked, because that was _real_ and immediate and important.

“Because nothing good has happened to me in a long time,” he finally muttered, releasing the other man's warm hands and leading them into the autumn afternoon.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is easy, unless you're a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Samuel L came out of nowhere, but he was nice to meet.

The Aug was already shaking by the time they made their way down the building's side stairs. Matt thought, in a sideways kind of way, that he had been entirely too paranoid the day before; who didn't have guests coming and going? Maz wasn't around _all day_. As long as they were quiet-

Well. As long as the neighbors didn't complain.

Looking back and forth across the grounds, where the retro-turf leached out its green for brown, the Aug stayed close behind Matt, almost as though he wanted to grab on and use him like a shield. They made their way to the Kellowna, where Matt handed over his helmet as soon as the Aug was seated. “We need a system for if you need me to stop. I'm worried you're gonna puke.”

The Aug looked down, but nodded. He looked pale and greenish, and took deep, occasionally unsettling breaths.

“When we're on the road, just hold on to me. You can thump my chest if we need to pull over,” Matt watched the other man's face for signs of understanding. There was the shadow of a smile on his face, his watery eyes crinkling at the corners. It was, as far as Matt could tell, the saddest thing he had ever seen.

“We,” the Aug said, very softly, his shoulders almost up to ears and his gaze averted.

“Yeah,” Matt climbed on and pressed his thumbs into the starter mechanism, waiting for it to confirm his imprints. It was the worst in winter, having to take his gloves on and off. But it was just barely fall now, and Matt liked the cooler weather for the time being; it made him feel at peace for whatever reason. Change, maybe.

They lit onto the highway that split the city in two, which crossed the river that also split the city in two- perpendicular and inaccessible by any means. The water dirges had all been scrapped ages ago, and the pollution, while better than it had been fifty years ago, meant no swimming and no playing. Matt had certainly never been in a river. Filthy.

The Aug held on tight but, roughly three miles out, tapped his chest with urgency. As soon as Matt pulled the bike onto the nearest shoulder, the Aug spilled gracelessly off and knelt with his back to the roadway. Trucks hammered by, their chains heavy. Matt hated trucks. When the redhead was done, he wiped the sleeve of Matt's coverall across his mouth, looking all the more sour for it. Matt picked up the helmet from where it had rolled, and handed it back without saying anything.

The second time was another few miles down, but of a shorter duration. Still, the way the Aug shook and trembled worried him. There was a dark thought in the back of Matt's head that maybe, _maybe_ , it was a bit too late for this one, and the treatment he had undergone would have ravaged the redhead too thoroughly. The third time, Matt kneeled alongside his charge and rubbed his back while he shuddered and coughed. The dark thought was louder, as loud as the smell of the bile that had splattered on the tumbled granite. Matt thought of what might need doing: A certificate, a ceremony? Cremation, obviously. Using _that_ money for _that_ purpose was almost poetic--

But the Aug wiped his mouth again and smiled, really _smiled_ , as though he weren't sick and weren't green, and was only out joyriding. He covered his mouth with his hand before speaking, “Will you please. Um. Buy me a toothbrush? I'm sorry to ask for more when you've already done so much-”

“Of course I can get you a toothbrush,” Matt scoffed, grabbing the Aug's sharp elbow and hauling him back to the bike; they were already over the river now, and the railways that tracked above them were slowing down as commuting hours receded. He wasn't worried now, not in the same way. This guy- this incredible guy- he was going to _make it_ , Matt suddenly had no doubt.

* * *

  
Locking the helmet in the Kellowna's storage pod, Matt led the two of them to the emergency room doors; for a Thursday, it was in between 'dead' and 'busy.' They stood, Matt assessing the amount of time they might be there while the Aug watched the door and kept close to Matt's shoulder. There were a few degenerates within spitting distance, gutter punks with holes where they didn't need them and leathery, sun-spoiled skin. Beyond was a group of families, nearer to each other and to the triage doors. The two and a half sets of parents watched the degenerates and the degenerates watched the duracream paint chip from the walls.

“Come on,” Matt said, heading for the desk. He didn't think it would be the worst wait- the children all looked fine, so it was the parents waiting, and only one person seemed to be actively bleeding. As if on cue, a nurse wheeled a mobility chair from the main hall and spirited away with the bleeder in question. At the desk, the reception nurse pushed a clipboard across the counter.

“What is the degree of your emergency?” she asked, neither impolite nor kind.

“Uh. Well,” the blonde glanced back at the Aug. He stood with his feet turned in slightly, hands together in front of himself. The braid was loose and several hairs were free, loose and messy.

“I need help,” the redhead muttered, glancing at the doors and then Matt and then the ground. “I, um, I don't know what to do.”

Matt read over the form; there weren't many blanks he could fill. He wrote the year that was two years older from his own birth. The nurse didn't blink, only took a breath and started again: “Are you currently in any pain, feel ill, or suspect there may be something specifically wrong?”

Matt leaned in, forearms on the counter; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Aug inch closer. “He's sick. It's complicated, but he's basically a recovering addict. I guess I should have, uh, checked the web for answers or clinics or whatever, but he's been puking for the last twelve hours or so, and. Uh.”

The nurse, unperturbed, slipped the clipboard back in front of herself and grabbed a pen. “We can get him set up in the detox intake lab, and if he qualifies we can get him checked in at one of the local houses.”

“Houses?” Matt narrowed his eyes; he didn't want the Aug to be whisked out of his sight, where anything might happen.

“Sorry, the recovery clinics are called Betterment Houses, now. It's just a place where they can facilitate care, most patients don't _live_ in them, as I believe you may be thinking,” she looked up at the redhead, her sharp face open and calm, “Name?”

“Um,” he fidgeted and shuffled another six inches closer to Matt, “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” her tone was flat; Matt leaned over to see her name badge. It was Mina.

Matt watched as his charge shook his head; Mina the nurse leaned sideways to look behind them, and Matt looked, too. There was no one behind them. “Okay. No identification, either?”

The Aug shook his head again, this time reaching up to pull at his braid, twisting its tail around his fingers. “I'm sorry.”

“It's fine, but it does make things more complicated. You need an identity to be seen- _but_ ,” she held out her hand at Matt's fierce look and the other man's fearful expression, “It can be temporary. We just need to be able to track what's going on. I have a few forms for it, but you'll need to see our dispensation counselor. Are you family?”

Matt colored when she looked back at him; he wasn't, but he felt like he was. He heard a train going by outside, rattling. “Uh, kind of. I'm his... friend.”

“Okay, friend, can you stick around for this? It will be easier for him, and for the counselor, if we have a co-signer. You can go if you need to, I'm just letting you know.”

“No, no, I'm going to stay,” Matt took a step toward the Aug, almost reached for him.

“Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs, currently?” Mina the nurse was tapping the glowing keys on her desk, and a printer behind her was already whirring.

“No, ma'am,” the redhead whispered, shaking his head and drawing his shoulders even closer to his ears.

“And your eyes, how long have you had them and are they bothering you?”

“Oh- I. I'm not sure. She... put them in a long time ago.”

“She?” Mina leaned over to grab the sheaf of paper to staple them together.

The Aug shook his head, vehement, and turned away, abruptly tucking his face against Matt's shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he whispered again, hands shaking in between them. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Matt felt heat prickle up his neck, but he took a deep breath and let it out. This wasn't for him. This was for the Aug, who was a victim and who needed help, _real_ help. He pat the redhead's back, then his shoulder, before accepting the packet Mina handed across the counter. “Fill out whatever you can, doctor Gallia will be able to see you in about- let's see- twenty minutes or so.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Matt grabbed a pen from the service tray, and fumbled for the clipboard. The nurse leveled it and handed it back over, already making eye contact with the person who had come up behind them. Gently, he used his free hand to guide the Aug, by his elbow, into the lounge area. There were cartoons on the hovering entertainment monitor, and two of the three children nearby were sitting and watching it quietly. The third, a chubby, dark-skinned boy with sweet, round features, openly stared at the Aug sitting in one of the green waiting chairs. Matt almost glared, but the child stood up, grabbed a box of tissues from one of the tables, and brought it over.

“Here you go,” he said, handing it to the Aug. “Are you okay?”

“Um, yes,” Matt watched as the redhead flushed and used his free hand to tuck loose hair behind his ear. “I just don't feel very good.”

“My dad says Augments are just looking for attention, but my teacher has eyes like yours. Before, without them she couldn't see,” the boy leaned in, conspiratorially, “And now she _can_  seeagain.”

“Oh, that's. That's really great,” he bit his lip, nodding a little. Matt wanted to be worried, but the Aug seemed at ease, compared to other interactions he'd been witness to.

“How come you got that tattoo on your forehead?”

Matt looked for his parents and saw a woman he presumed was the mother sitting in a chair across the way, wrapped in a small blanket and leaning with her cheek in her hand, possibly asleep. She looked unwell, and Matt couldn't quite blame her, but the child's line of questioning made him worried for the Aug's well-being.

“This, um, well. It's kind of weird, isn't it? I didn't want it. A lady made me get it. A bad lady.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Does it hurt?” the boy grabbed a tissue from the box and blew his nose.

“Not anymore.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means I'm- I'm a boy. A man,” the redhead's eyebrows were drawing in, as though he were half present and half somewhere else- halfway into a memory, Matt guessed, almost hoped, if it might help.

“Oh, okay. I'm a boy, too, but I'm glad I don't got it tattooed on me. Are you gonna take it off or does the lady say you have to keep it?”

“Oh. Um. I don't know. I don't... live with her anymore. So maybe.”

Matt watched as what passed for a smile started to turn up at the corners of his charge's mouth. He hadn't even activated the pen, hadn't looked at the new batch of papers. The Aug still looked pale and ill, tired. Still looked on the verge of collapse, like a star somewhere far away, but there was a kind of peace in his voice, in the next breath that he took, that Matt thought he could _feel_ , sitting next to the abused man beside him.

“That's cool, if you do. My mom says, she's over there, she says tattoos are like art but you shouldn't get them unless you really love them. When I grow up, I'm getting a tattoo of my dog.”

“That sounds nice,” the Aug said, smiling more clearly. “What kind of dog is it?”

“He's a copper malamute and he's _this big_ , but the tattoo will be smaller.”

“Mace, baby, come here, what are you doin' bothering those folks,” the woman across the way waved weakly, nose scrunched as if she had a headache, “Come on back, now, I know you're bored, but you can't be bothering people.”

“Okay, Mama, sorry,” the boy turned back to the Aug and smiled wide, “Hope you feel better and stuff.”

“Thank you,” the Aug's eyes seemed soft, relaxed, to Matt, for possibly the first time. The redhead waved back at the woman, who was shaking her head in a kind of universal apology. Mace, the little boy, began to read or play on a Padd beside her, uncomplicated.

“He gave me tissues,” he added, looking down, into his lap. The box was economy, not pretty. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, enjoying how relaxed the Aug's shoulders seemed, even for having spoken of the mysterious woman who had, presumably, ruined his life. “Actually, you have. Stuff. Here.”

The Aug mimicked the motion Matt performed, tapping the inside corners of his eyes. His fingertips came back orange, almost glittering. “Oh, the rust.”

He pulled a tissue from the box and scruffed it around the bridge of his nose, and then around his beautiful, blue eyes. He was quick, efficient, as though he'd done it before- had to have, a hundred times. A thousand. Matt watched as he leaned back, cradling the tissues, and staring into the middle distance. There was a fine tremor running across his collar, his hands. Everything about him seemed strung between ease and terror, a sheer drop of sickness.

Matt wanted to bundle him up, carry him away. But there was no need for that. The Aug could stand on his own, he really could.

He activated the pen, and started filling in what he could.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that feels like hope begins to take root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for four pages of paperwork, cause Matt sure is

The Aug's legs were shaking; first one, then the other, in cycles. He ran his palms over his quadriceps and breathed, head down. Matt wanted to shake his own leg in solidarity, or, he simply wanted to shake his leg because he saw someone else doing it. Like a sympathetic yawn. Instead, he stared into the middle distance, chin in his hand. It had been roughly a half hour and he had completed the forms to the best of his ability. The Aug had not offered, but had glanced surreptitiously, suspiciously, at the packet from time to time.

From the date of birth, age: Twenty-six.

Reason for admittance: Illness due to drug withdrawal.

Symptoms: Vomiting, restlessness, anxiety. Fever?

Matt drummed his fingers along the clipboard's polyplas face, liking the crisp sound. There had been three more emergencies in the last thirty minutes: A man, stabbed through the middle, a woman, in labor, and another man, this one with sparks snapping out of his neck as an implant shorted and sizzled under his skin. This man, groaning in agony, had looked like a street man, clothes a hodgepodge of leather and pockmarked canvas. Matt had watched as the Aug had watched, just barely lifting his chin. There was no mystery as to the interest.

He wanted to put his hand on the redhead's pale hand, or his sharp shoulder, but closed his fist and squashed the impulse instead. After another two people from the waiting room were escorted down the separated corridor, Matt brought himself into focus for a figure that was striding toward them.

She was very classically dressed, in a pencil skirt and buttoned shirt, her lab coat floating behind her like a cape. Her cocoa skin seemed to glow under the hollow florescents, and she strode up fearlessly, her hand already outstretched to greet them. “Miss Bonteri tells me you two are in need of my help,” she said, warm but all business, “Thank you for waiting, I'm Doctor Adi Gallia.”

Matt stood to accept the handshake, thinking that the Aug would, in all likelihood, wither under the attention in the big, stark room. The doctor took the clipboard and scanned over it before looking at Matt's charge. She raised her eyebrows, but there was no real surprise or malice. Matt shifted, resisting the urge to stand between them as the redhead finally stood and watched the woman through his eyelashes.

“Come with me to my office, and we can get started,” she spun on her heel and strode away, down the opposite corridor, running perpendicular to the emergency wing. Her hair swung in a dark tail, mesmerizing down her back. Matt glanced backward to be sure that his charge was still following. The Aug had his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked against his ribs.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, soft, slowing down.

The redhead only nodded, distracted, and looked behind them. His braid was falling out of order, strands framing his chin and his neck. He didn't seem to notice. There was nothing for it, nothing Matt could really do.

The office ended up being another quad hall away, and then two stories up by an elevator that was strangely smooth for how much use it surely got. Gallia allowed them in first before shutting the heavy fadewood door, the industrial, almost age-proof wood synthezite. There were couches on either side of the large room, along with a second door leading who-knew-where. Her desk was of the corner variety, and it dominated the back wall. There was one tasteful filing cabinet nearby, and in front of the desk were two large chairs, neither too formal nor too comfortable. They were green, and the window was set in the wall between the desk and chairs. Gallia indicated the high-backs while she sat in her rolling office chair, pulling several new sheets from a heavy-looking drawer.

They sat, the Aug more noticeably agitated. Matt whispered, “It's okay.”

“All right, my dears, I have a few preliminary questions I like to get out of the way. They are of a somewhat delicate nature, so I like to have patients here, where it's private, before I ask. I'm letting you know ahead of time that your responses determine your eligibility for care from our facility. This is not to say you are ineligible for care elsewhere, but I have limited vouchers so you must understand my caution when taking on new cases. Does that make sense so far?”

The Aug breathed in sharp, arms still wrapped around his ribs, knees tight together; all the same, he nodded. Matt curled his fingers around his own knees, nervous.

“All right, then. Are you currently under the influence?”

“No, Ma'am,” the Aug said, voice brittle.

“Do you want to be clean?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Okay, good job, my dear. Let's move on to some paperwork,” when she smiled, her laugh lines fanned across her cheeks, prominent and unexpectedly kind. She scanned the packet: "You are... Matthew Kee.”

“Yeah,” Matt fought the urge to cross his arms.

“And now, _you_ don't have a name? Can you explain that?” she rested her elbows on the large desk, leaning in. “Just for the sake of context, trust me, I've heard it all.”

The Aug shifted, dragging his hands back down to his jiggling legs. He pushed at them, as if to force them to settle. “I... I just don't remember.”

Gallia made notes on a Padd at her elbow, somehow unobtrusively as she listened. “It says here you're twenty-six. You remember that?”

“No.”

Matt frowned, “You told me that.”

The Aug's eyes went wide, not quite in fear, but in horror; his shoulders scrunched. “I don't. Remember.”

“You don't remember telling me?” Matt was reeling, suddenly light-headed with how completely out of his depth this situation was for him. He wanted to stand, to lay down, to walk out of there. Instead, he listened for a moment to the hum of traffic outside, to the _pat_ of raindrops as they started in against the counselor's large window. “I asked you when we- when we left the Hadden building.”

“I don't remember,” the Aug's pale face was so drawn, so tight with distress, that the red around his eyes seemed almost to glow. The sun would be setting in earnest, in not too long; it was too surreal. “I'm so sorry.”

The counselor smiled again, this time gentle- understanding. “It sounds like you've been through a lot.”

“Matt helped me,” the Aug blurted, then flushed, dropping his chin and grabbing the end of his braid in one set of jerky movements.

“All right. We have a _lot_ to cover, so let's just dive right in. Mr. Kee, this will be your part of the process, should you choose to be involved. I am inferring right now that you haven't known each other for very long, is that correct?”

“Yeah- yes,” Matt mumbled, opting for honesty, though he was worried for it, “We met a couple days ago. Um. Does this mean he qualifies?”

Gallia smirked, “Well. He's halfway there. However, I'd like to put you at ease by saying I have a good feeling about it.”

A weight that seemed as heavy as a dragonfly class cruiser seemed to lift from Matt's shoulders; halfway there. It felt like halfway to the end, even though they had barely begun. But this was _hope_ , finally. Gallia went to the printed papers at her elbow, sliding them toward Matt's side of the table. “This is a power of authority request form, and this is a temporary identity claim. We'll need to fill both before we can submit for the care voucher. Now, I want you to read this over carefully, the authority request– you, too, my dear– because it's no small measure of responsibility, and I don't want you to take it lightly. If you don't want to file this, you don't have to.”

She paused, making the kind of eye contact with Matt that had used to start fights with his mother. Her fingers drummed once across the fadewood desk, its strange density ringing loud under her nails. “You _don't_ have to, but if you choose to decline this position, it will go to the county. I can't guarantee that he'll be assigned a good agent, or an agent at all. He may be required by the Jury Erkisson statute to be moved into a halfway home in order to receive treatments. And, you will have no legal access whatsoever. You will not be consulted, informed, or able to sign, legally, for any assistance he may need. It will all be confidential to the state, and I need not tell you that our system, while progressing every year, has its share of knots and tangles.”

Matt blinked, swallowed. Out of the corner of his vision he saw the Aug trembling, still staring resolutely at the floor. Was he afraid to look? Afraid to see Matt's face when he declined further involvement in this disaster, and walked away?

“I'll do it,” he said, perhaps more aggressively than he had intended.

Gallia's eyebrows in a kind of consummate amusement. “Read the papers first. Then sign.”

They spent the next half hour reading; the Aug took a sudden initiative, reaching for the forms and scanning over them more quickly than even a strong reader like Matt could ever hope to do. The Aug blinked rapidly when he handed them back, as though he were cataloging copies of the pages behind his eye sockets. The gist of the power of authority, so far that Matt could parse, was in signatures and payments. It recognized an individual needing guardianship, for whatever reason, as a kind of dependent of the named authority. That person, now Matt, would be given equal or greater investment in the welfare of the dependent, especially in special circumstances where they may be considered unfit to make their own decisions.

It was huge.

Married to that precept, the authority was also financially responsible for the dependent's care. As Gallia had explained, there were vouchers for recovery treatments, for those who qualified, but there were often hidden expenses in the care industry. Additionally, part of the need for the authority agreement was lodged in a knowledge that the dependent may not have a home, or safe place, of their own, and were functionally being fostered.

While Matt read these sections for a second time, breathing in as measured a way as he knew how, he noticed with growing worry how the Aug beside him seemed more and more wracked with nerves or pain or terror, or whatever else it was that haunted him as he sat in the green chair and clashed beautifully. Presently, he was rocking slightly and staring out the high window, not quite close enough to be seen from the nearer streets.

“Hey,” Matt nudged the Aug with his foot. “What are you thinking?”

An abortive shrug and an almost-shake of the Aug's head: “I don't know if- I don't think I'm. Matt.”

He said the blonde's name like it was a prayer, one that he was sure to be punished for uttering.

“What?” Matt could see Gallia typing away at a second, larger Padd that was set an angle on her desk; it was as much privacy as they could expect to receive, short of leaving the room.

“I don't think I'm worth all this,” he finally whispered, locking his fingers together before slotting them between his knees.

Stubborn, burgeoning on angry, Matt hissed, “Stop. Stop there. Everybody is worth something.”

The redhead looked ready to argue, but wilted under the harsh look Matt leveled at him, too close for comfort. Gallia clicked her nails against her desk. “Good news, gentlemen. Matthew, your background check came through. Nothing too exciting, though I see you spent some time with Cube for fighting.”

“Uh,” Matt started, heat filling his ears, “Yeah. I got into some... fights. I did service with them cause I was under twenty. Am I still gonna be allowed to do this?”

“I'm not going to sugarcoat this: If you are involved in _any_ altercations for which you cannot prove defense of self and property, your authority agreement becomes nullified. Even in self-defense, your – account, we'll call it – would go into review, and with a history, it could end badly for you. Additionally, Cube tends to work very hard to keep problem individuals from current and former dependents. This is not negotiable. So. Do I have your word there won't be any issues?”

“Yes, of course, yeah,” the blonde felt a wild, violent impulse to salute her.

“Your financials check out great, that's good. Very stable,” Gallia continued scrolling through the report that had been running, making occasional commentary and keeping all of the pens out of his arm's reach. He wanted to sign _now._ After a few more gut-wrenching minutes, Gallia turned to the Aug. “I know you're suffering right now, and I am so proud of you for withstanding it so far. You are so strong. I really think you can do this. Do you?”

The redhead scrunched his shoulders up to his ears, hands still between his knees. His feet in the thin canvas shoes were tipped on their outsides, ankles bent to an almost unsettling degree. Matt could see him suck in a breath, though he appeared to be trying not to smile more than anything else. The bridge of his nose was red. He murmured, “Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am.”

“This is the end of the first step, so I only have one more question to ask,” she reached across table and tapped the forms that waited in front of Matt. “Would you like to give power of authority to Matthew Kee, for the duration of three hundred and sixty four days, available to be repealed by petition to the county should you experience duress under his care?”

Matt watched as the Aug began to nod well before her framing was complete. She smiled at him and nodded back. “Out loud, then.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” he said, his little smile continuing to fight for its place on his pale face. Matt's heart slipped into his stomach for one earth-shattering second.

Gallia handed him the pen.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr Gallia takes them through the second part of the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an actual, intentional Dredd reference in here, now.

Doctor Gallia reviewed the first application for a minute and a half before Matt blurted, “I didn't know what to put in section 'A,' for, uh. Name.”

Looking to the Aug, he still didn't know.

The redhead tilted his chin, his mouth set in silent worry. He made brief, flitting eye contact, and then went back to rolling his ankles to their furthest limit. Matt brought one hand to hold his face, jaw aching from tension.

“Oh, of course,” she responded after a pause, still reading, “That's what the next form is for.”

The two men both watched as Gallia pushed the single sheet to the edge of the table, between them. There was a silver seal on the lower right hand corner. “There's no need to feel a ton of pressure over this. It's only temporary, for up to a year. After that you'll have to be matched back to wherever you were lost from, submit a new, permanent identity, or... disappear, as some do.”

“I- I won't,” the redhead scooted closer to the edge of his seat, “I wouldn't.”

“Of course not,” the dark-haired woman soothed, leaning back in her chair, “So what remains then is simply choosing.”

They were silent, then, both Gallia and Matt watching the Aug as he fidgeted. Matt had considered calling him 'Techie' a few times, but had decided against it when he thought on the life the Augment had left behind, and how it may be a stressor. There had been no name, not really, for the few days that had passed; and it left Matt wondering where the turning point for them lay. Now, or in the future? When he was better, perhaps, and didn't need his help or his house or his money? What else was there, really?

The former slave tech rocked slightly, looking somewhat green, but otherwise only nervous under the attention. “Um. Matt?”

“Yeah?” his heart thumped hard at the sound of his name in the small room.

“I feel like... I can remember. When I was out of it, you said. A few times. Um.”

“What did I say?”

“I don't- well, I think- God- not that there is such a thing, but, God-?”

Gallia snorted but quickly covered it up with a cough.

“No, I mean–” his face was turning red with incredible speed, pale skin lit up like a siren.

“God have mercy?” Matt thought out loud; it was something his dad had used to say, usually when arguing with his mother.

The Aug's eyes seemed to brighten, in some small, delicate way. He smiled, a slight and nervous thing, and nodded, “Yes. Yes, that. Can I be that- Mercy?”

It was somehow clear to Matt that there was more to the request- that the Aug had almost said more about why he wanted that strange word for a name. His expression, though, of hope, outweighed the vague suspicion that Matt always had to shake when it came to the intentions of others. “You can be whoever you want, man. Mercy is fine. It's good.”

 _It's pretty_.

Gallia marked the application Matt had finished, and when she lifted her pen, said, “And for a last name?”

“May-” the Aug– _Mercy_ – started to say, immediately, before his eyes went wide in terror. Hardly a moment later he was crossing in front of Matt's knees and heaving into the doctor's wastebasket. Matt startled, getting down on the floor beside him. He rested his palm against Mercy's back; he was shaking like a leaf, all while coughing into the bin and panting for breath. “Oh- Oh my god, oh god, fuck–”

“Hey- hey, you're all right, shh,” he mumbled, getting close enough that his own stomach rolled in protest at the smell.

“I'm sorry,” the redhead leaned back, wiping his mouth against the sleeve of the borrowed coverall. “I'm so sorry, I'll- I'll- oh my _god._ ”

Mercy's eyes were glassy as Matt levered him up and led him back to his chair by the window. It was very much like having first found him, in the alley, only a couple days ago. As they settled, Gallia tapped commands into her Padd and a squat, friendly looking droid scooted into the room via sliding panel. It made quick work of the basket, replacing the liner and spraying a freshening compound into the air before beeping and retreating. The doctor smiled, still warm, “Not the first time that's happened; won't be the last, either.”

The Aug seemed to be coming down from his panic, but Matt was still worried, still frazzled. “What was that?”

Mercy shook his head, blinking rapid and sharp. He stood up and sat back down, clapping his knees together and holding his arms across his stomach.

“It's normal to continue having episodes of nausea; this is probably going to be recurring for you for at least a week or two,” Gallia soothed, leaning on her desk.

“I think... I think that was. My _name_ ,” Mercy finally gasped, voice hardly more than a tremor. “N-Not all of it. The s-start of it. Oh, fuck, oh my god...”

Matt watched as the Aug pressed the heel of one hand against his left eye, then his right, sniffing like mad. It was, for no good reason, torture to keep his hands to himself. After a moment, however, Mercy pulled himself somewhat together, shyly accepting the tissues and gum that the doctor slid his way.

“Your name, then?” she probed, “You think you've got it?”

“No...” Mercy said, slow, unsteady. “It's not. It doesn't feel right. I think. Maybe that was the first part? I don't know.”

He unwrapped the stick of gum and glanced not at Gallia but at Matt, “I wish I did.”

He was still shaking.

“Mercy,” Gallia said, tone firm, “I don't think there's a gentle way to put this, and I had my suspicions: But you were tortured, weren't you?”

A sharp inhale. The redhead's shoulders hiking up to his ears. He looked out the window again, staring unblinking at the darkening sky. “I, um. I guess I was. It's kind of a blur... Everything is, shit, it's a blur.”

“I wasn't going to bring this up until later, but we may as well throw all the cards on the table. I know that tattoo. I've seen Ma-Ma Clan come through before. Mostly bleeding thugs. I've seen slapdash procedures like that,” she circled her fingers in the general direction of Mercy's eyes, “-And I've seen worse. The fact that you're sitting here in my office is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, instantly, barely chewing his gum.

“Don't be, you're not in trouble. However, there is someone I'd like you to meet when you're on the mend, if you don't mind. Someone who I think could help you a great deal, and in turn I think your input could be rather invaluable.”

“Um... okay, yeah. Of course,” the Aug shrugged, nodding. It was the most awkward thing he had done all day, and Matt though he might kind of love it.

“All right, I'll make a note here that we're going to bring Cassandra in on your case at a later date,” she pursed her lips as she finished annotating his file in her Padd, “Okay. We're back to last name. No puking.”

Matt's temper roiled up, but Mercy gave a weak giggle at her joke and the anger passed. Mercy shrugged again, looking to Matt. “I don't know. I just... I want to get better.”

“Kee,” Matt breathed, staring back at him. “You can use my last name. If you want.”

The blue eyes that Matt had been unable to look away from, that he had been unable to forget when he closed his own eyes, mesmerized him completely as Mercy looked to him. His eyelashes fanned in a perfect arch under his pale eyebrows; the sound of tiny mechanisms whirring, clicking, as he was assessed. “I can?”

“Yeah,” Matt managed, though it felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Can I?” Mercy turned his gaze to the doctor. She was smiling, very soft, a bit amused, as she leaned back in her high-backed chair.

“Of course you can,” she tapped again at the Padd before saying, almost casually, “Nice to meet you, Mercy Kee.”

Matt felt his face get hot, though bewilderment at the flush of affection was all he could process. He was going to be taking care of this guy; this goddamn miracle. Nothing else seemed to matter as he watched Mercy try to straighten his shoulders while he laughed, nervous and light and shy. The Aug couldn't seem to hold Matt's gaze, or Gallia's, and continually looked down to his knees and feet, shoulders still twitching in indecision. He mumbled, face red, “M... Mercy. Kee. Mercy Kee.”

“For now, yes,” the doctor chuckled, pulling a stiff sheet of paper out of the file cabinet. Matt felt his heart sink, as though a happy surprise had been ripped away from him. She had an ink pad and stood up to open it on the middle of her vast desk. “Come here, we're going to take your prints. They might help to find where you came from, and, if not, you'll be in the system.”

“But I... I helped... I,” Mercy bit his lip with vehemence, looking toward Matt, but through him.

“That's where Cassandra is going to be helpful, don't worry. Are you or are you not a victim? Did you volunteer to kill someone?”

“Oh... no. No, of course not, it's just...”

“You helped?”

“...Yes, Ma'am,” he was reaching up again, how Matt was getting very used to seeing, to touch and tug his hair.

“Were you coerced or did you volunteer to kill someone?” Gallia repeated, somehow gently. Matt stared at her, seeing suddenly that she wasn't trying to goad some kind of confession out of his friend, or guilt. Rather, a kind of understanding. She was truly on their side.

“Co... coerced, Ma'am... but. It's still. Blurry.”

The counselor put our her hands, nodding. After a moment, Mercy lifted and set his fingers against her upturned palms, where she guided them down to the ink and then down to the paper. “Whatever happened, happened. You'll take responsibility if you need to. You're a victim of the Ma-Ma Clan. Cassandra and I, and others, will help you. Don't worry.”

The redhead said nothing, only nodded and blinked a renewed glassiness away from his eyes. He looked to Matt, this time with intent, “I can't seem to stop c-crying. I'm sorry.”

“You're okay,” the blonde mumbled, grabbing a tissue and pulling Mercy's hands toward his own chest. Carefully, he buffed the excess ink away.

“You must be exhausted, my dear, I'm so sorry,” the doctor brushed her pony tail back over her shoulder before spinning her chair toward a copying machine, the automated sort that was strangely quiet, almost too sleek. “You're almost done. All that you have to do is have your papers notarized and then go through triage. I can write you a script for a few day's treatment, and then you'll have to come back to see a proper physician for your blood test results. They'll be able to recommend the best treatment plan from there.”

“How do we get this stuff notarized?” Matt wondered aloud, not sure where the nearest government building even was. Gallia was stamping all of the copies with a flourish, presenting the final product in the air like a television advertisement.

“I am an officiant of the public- a notary, if you will,” she smiled, transferring the paper copies to two folders.

“Thank you,” Mercy said, so quietly at first Matt wasn't sure he had heard, “Thank you so much, Ma'am, I promise I'll be good– I mean, that I- that you won't regret this.”

“Of course, my dear. I believe in you. You've obviously survived a great deal, and you have support. You should be proud of yourself; I'm just the paperwork. Now, do me a favor and go stand outside a minute. I have some last minute instructions for your caretaker.”

Hunching his shoulders as though he may still be, somehow, in trouble, the Aug took the folder and slipped obediently into the hall; the fadewood door clicking shut behind him like a gunshot. The doctor folded her hands on the desk, clearing her throat to bring Matt's attention around.

“He's not a hopeless case,” she began, arching her eyebrows.

“Of course not,” Matt scoffed, running his hands down his thighs, the denim there smooth with age. “He's stronger than he looks.”

Her dark eyes didn't waver, but her expression waned to another shade of caution. There were keys on her belt loop, and she used one to unlock a drawer just out of sight. A prescription pad. “Without having bloodwork done, I can't make a recommendation for treatment. Frankly, the dosages are a bit over my head. I'll work to have him assigned to a... sympathetic physician. Until then, this is a week's worth of non-narcotic pain killers... a week's worth of anti-nausea medication... and some sleep aids.”

She ripped them out one after the other, handing them to Matt with looks of warning.

“When I pick these up, the uh, the pharmacist will tell me how to, uh, dispense them?”

“More than that, this is a trial run. Guard those pills. He's doing all right now, but this is only the crest before a tidal wave. The physician will have a long term plan once we get the bloodwork back, but until then, there are a few basics. I know I don't have to tell you to give him only the minimum?”

Her expression suggested that perhaps she _did_ have to tell him. Matt swallowed down a pang of irritation and nodded.

“Mood swings, vomiting, body aches, you've already seen some of it, I'm sure. Here's a professional tip: Hot baths. When he starts having a fit, give him half a sleep aid and put him in the bath. Body aches, painkiller and bath. Epsom salt if you have it. He's going to be miserable.”

“I'm not going to give up on him,” Matt ground out, sensing, or perhaps imagining, that the doctor was trying to put him off from his new station. No. He had the paperwork. This was his new calling.

“I know,” Gallia smiled, tilting her head. It felt maternal and Matt wanted to hate it, but the feeling wouldn't come. “I know fighters when I see them. Here's my contact information. Use it, but don't share it. I'll help however I can, and of course I will be checking in as your authority representative. Don't do anything I'd have to report to Cube, or Phase One.”

Though it was a warning, she winked. Feeling dismissed but optimistic, he stood, thanked her, and went to the door. On the other side, Mercy Kee was waiting.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a good two weeks of inactivity

“Mercy,” Matt said, carefully, as they made their way back to the emergency room. It felt easy on his tongue, familiar- except now he doubted he'd be able to say 'God have mercy' anymore. Though: It didn't feel like a loss, not really.

The redhead seemed not to hear him, but then startled, “Oh. _Oh_. Yes?” He grinned- an honest to gracious _grin_ \- and kept pace with his keeper.

“How are you doing?”

“Um. Okay, I guess. My head hurts. Well... everything hurts. But I'm not nauseous. So. That's good.”

“Yeah, that's pretty good, isn't it?” Matt had taken possession of the folder, and was comparing the photograph Doctor Gallia had taken of Mercy to the man who walked beside him. It was clipped to the copies that gave Matt discretion over everything to do with the nervous-looking Aug in the picture; how entirely surreal. The level of responsibility Matt had agreed to was almost beyond his comprehension- he had never even owned a pet. “Are you hungry?”

There was a long pause, Mercy's hand actually moving to touch his stomach, hidden behind the overlarge coverall. “I. Maybe? I don't know.”

“It's probably been too long since you had... breakfast, to have a good blood test. Let's go to the cafeterium first.”

The Aug looked ready to argue, face pinched, but Matt touched his shoulder and guided him down the hallway that led toward the vague smell of food.

It wasn't a terribly large cafeterium, for which Matt was grateful; there was a walk through with trays, a few drink dispensers, and one, tired-looking staff member at the register. Only three or four tables had any patrons, and the atmosphere was hushed. The blonde took a deep breath, “Okay. You wait here at- this table- and I'll go get us some lunch.”

Mercy sat slowly down onto the seat Matt had chosen. His back would be to a pillar while he faced the walk-through. Although his shoulders were still hunched, he seemed to appreciate the choice. Leaving the folder behind, Matt made his way through the selection process as quickly as he could, returning to find the Aug staring down at the open file with his mouth slightly open.

“Here, soup for you. And a roll,” Matt edged the tray into view and was heartened when the Aug pulled it close.

“That's me,” Mercy whispered, tapping the photo.

“Yeah,” the blonde replied, not sure of what else to say. He bit into his sandwich, hoping it would give him some time to think.

“I keep expecting them. To see them. For them to be here and take this away,” he stirred his soup with the little biodegradable spoon, breathing in the steam.

“I know,” Matt swallowed, looking around despite having no idea what he would recognize, “But you're safe here. With me.”

The Aug ducked his head back down to the soup, hiding the smile that twitched at his mouth. Slowly, he tucked into the chicken noodle, putting away almost half of it while Matt cleared his sandwich, a bag of chips, a bottled water, and both of the cookies he had grabbed for them to share. Mercy had looked so apologetic for having no more appetite, but Matt was thrilled just to see the roll get eaten along with the soup.

They sat quietly for several minutes, agreeing that digesting for a while would be the safest way to avoid further expectoration. Mercy put his head on his arms and rested against the table while Matt texted Rey.

_i'm at the hospital with my friend. he has a name now it's mercy_

The return sound seemed to jar the Aug from his catnapping; Matt set the sound profile to vibrate.

_Is he ok?_

_he's a little better but the dr said there would be ups and downs_

Rey's next message came almost immediately afterward: _We're still on for tomorrow?_

_yeah, thank you. i need a lot of groceries, probably some other stuff_

_When are u going to buy a real car, Matthew Kee?_

Matt smiled at the running gag; Rey took every opportunity to make fun of him for choosing an old Kellowna rather than even a decent two-door. But a scooter cost a fraction of the price- and for a long time it had been enough. Well. Maybe one day. Maybe one day soon.

“Hey, come on. Let's get this over with so we can go– home,” he tapped Mercy's forearm, frowning when the Aug startled upward. To be fair, it hadn't been his worst upset.

They made their way back to the main intake lounge and signed in with the same nurse who had helped them earlier. Her smile was thin but not faked. “Good for you,” Bonteri said, initialing next to the scrawled _Mercy Kee_ and temporary security identification code that qualified him for care. Less than thirty minutes later, an expressionless nurse's aide performed a cursory evaluation of the Aug's physical and emotional state, and then led them to a side room where they were told to wait for the next venipuncturist.

Mercy unzipped himself from the upper part of the coverall and rolled up his sleeves.

From behind a privacy screen, an elderly doctor, hair springing wild from his ears, approached them with a needle pack. Matt hated having his own blood removed, but Mercy turned his wrist over with no complaint or flinching; he even watched as the pack was suction-grafted over the vein. The little bag began to slowly fill, osmosis doing most of the work. Matt shuddered.

Though he had said very little, the doctor smiled very kindly when he broke the seal and lifted the pack away. He seemed to understand, somehow, that the little scars on the inside of the Aug's elbow were not his fault, not his choice. Without asking, he tapped a tiny spoonful of bacta gel onto the marks, covering the thick substance with a cotton pad and securing it down with adhesive tape. Mercy let the doctor repeat the process when he reached with wrinkled hands for his other arm.

Matt's mouth was dry; his throat scratched up with a feeling he couldn't place. He wanted to give thanks, somehow, but the doctor was already bundling up his supplies, handing Mercy a sheet with a scrawled prescription.

“I'll have an assistant call you with the results, but I can tell you now you're severely dehydrated. Take that to the dispensary and drink plenty of fluids.”

The Aug handed the sheet to Matt, nodding. It was for salt-balancing vitamins.

The dispensary was on the second floor, behind plating. After submitting to scans and having the script sheets analyzed by a small, buzzing droid for authenticity, they were admitted. Mercy seemed especially nervous as the armored door slid shut behind them, and kept close to Matt's elbow as they joined the line. A handful of other people were ahead of them, but they were soon through; the four bottles rattled in their thin plastic bag, even with the multiple packets of instructions. Matt thought, from the pharmacist's explanation, that he would remember well enough how to dole them out.

Outside, it was close to proper dark, and all of the lamps and highway lights were glowing. On the monorail that wrapped past the hospital and shot off toward downtown Callaway, the tracks were humming with leftover solar energy. Mercy yawned and tripped over his own feet on their way to the Kellowna, catching himself on Matt's shoulder.

“Tired?”

The Aug nodded, covering his mouth for a moment before turning. A step and a half away, he leaned over and vomited between two parked cars.

“You went a long time without doing that. Probably that's a good sign?” the blonde sighed, hands on his hips while he waited for Mercy to recover. This was going to be the longest week of his life, at this rate. “I still need to get you a tooth brush.”

Standing by the scooter while Matt retrieved the helmet and stowed the pills, the Aug watched, like a mouse, back and forth, into the evening that flowed out around them. There was an eerie, too quiet feeling there in the lot; never mind the distant whir of traffic, or the troubling crackled of wayward electricity that punched along the old billboards that lined the monorail route. No one was traveling the broken-up sidewalk or hovering close by their cars in the parking zone. It was, for a moment, a desert free from people- though it certainly wouldn't last. The Aug had pulled his hat back on, pulling it from a deep pocket, along with a discontinued penny and a bus ticket to Tervin. His hair was more loose than braid at this point, but Matt shoved down the want to reach over and tidy it.

He held the scooter by its handles, letting Mercy clamber with his long legs onto it first. As soon as Matt joined him, he felt the Aug's arms circle his chest, then slide to his stomach. Against the uppermost edge of his back, where his neck was cool from the Autumn air, he felt the curve of the cold helmet lean into his spine; the combined chill _zinged_ down to his tail bone.

His thumbs punched the scooter into gear, his hands guiding them through muscle memory alone.

The only thought that really held any sway over his mind was more a chain of feelings, of impressions, of how his back slowly warmed, and how the dark seemed blue, as though they were driving through a underwater city: Passing megaliths, holding their breath.  
  
  


* * *

 

 

While Mercy went into the bathroom to fill the tub, Matt unpacked their convenience store haul on the worn, daffodil-colored kitchen counter. It had been sealed with a type of polymer meant to turn the entire surface into a potential cutting board, but age and use had withered its usefulness down to resisting cracks and little else. Matt used a regular cutting board, when he needed it. Out of the bag: A two-pack of toothbrushes, a small bottle of ibuprofen, a bag of cheese-themed chips, two fancy bottles of tea, and six cups of instant noodles.

Matt chuckled while he tossed the tea into the fridge; this was what successful adulthood looked like.

The sound of the water through the bathroom door was a low roar, strangely comforting as he wandered through the motions of filling two of the styro cups and leaving them in his weak microwave to nuke for five minutes. When he went to check, Mercy was sitting on the edge of the tub, one foot in the rising water, his knees tight together while he rubbed his arms. He was down to Matt's boxer briefs and loose a-line undershirt: A sad little all-black uniform. Matt passed him a painkiller and half of a sleeping pill. A glass of water that was almost too full.

The redhead accepted the capsules and drank- making, for a moment, a kind of rebellious eye contact that Matt didn't understand.

He sat on the tub's edge, too, though with both feet out. There was steam coming off of the water.

Questions about how the Aug felt, or what he wanted, or what his plan might be, ricocheted about as well as sodden cloth inside of Matt's head. The latter trains of thought being especially beyond ridiculous: His _plans_? and therefore, wisely, Matt kept his mouth shut. Of course the Aug was in pain- it was written all over his face, in the tense line of his neck and shoulders. For a moment, they sat together in silence, listening to the water echo in the bath. It would be a joke, Matt thought, to truly enjoy it. They were both too tall.

Carefully, he reached over and lay his hand down on Mercy's knee. It was still cold.

“I know Adi said to take a hot bath, but I think you might want to cool this one off a little bit. Your leg is super red.”

He received no answer, but the Aug turned at the waist to adjust the tap.

“Here,” Matt said, quiet and almost afraid. His heart was beating a little too hard for just sitting and waiting. Mercy let him when he grasped the Aug's right hand and wrist, tugging it toward himself. Carefully, he picked and peeled the medical tape away from Mercy's elbow; the skin was still marked, but the fresher, red spots were nearly healed. They wouldn't scar.

When he looked up from inspecting the right and then the left, Mercy was looking, intent, at the water, and his face was pink all across his nose and ears. Matt scooted closer, not quite able to catch the Aug's gaze. Slow, steady, he brought his hands with their little moles up to the redhead's ratty braid. It wasn't much to pull the tie away, dropping it into the sink to retrieve later. His fingers remembered this, though not from the angle; the way to run his nails through the center of the braid, separating the segments, not pulling too hard. Rey had been, always, keen to have her hair played with.

Mercy's chin was trembling. “I'm... sure I've had a bath before. You know. Before. I feel. Like there's someone just- here- calling me, and there are bubbles everywhere. On everything.”

“Yeah,” Matt swallowed, trying and failing to offer better.

When the tub was full, the redhead stood, pulling the tank up and over head head. He did not seem embarrassed, or worried. Resigned, maybe. Before he could get to the shorts, Matt stood and left, wanting to give him privacy, whether he knew he could ask for it or not.

In the living space, he picked up the crackers that had jumped their sleeve just a few hours ago. In the kitchen, he pulled the noodles from the microwave and stirred them to even out the heat. In his head, he planned what kinds of bubble bath he might buy the next day.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the things i have learned, you would not believe

The last thing Matt saw before sleep pulled him tight to its breast was the dim glow of second-hand light. Dallying under the edge of his closed door, it eased his mind and made him aware, more acutely, that his Aug was safe on the other side. Mercy had insisted, after eating his ramen in the tub like a decadent, white trash emperor, that he would rather the light in the bathroom door stay on while he slept in the living area.

Matt had no argument and plenty of imagination for why.

So Mercy had rolled up in the afghan, murmuring sleepy thanks and endearingly wobbly from heat and his half a sleeping pill. The light stayed on, the door to the bathroom open halfway.

Sleep had come to Matt probably as quickly as it had to the Aug- he was _exhausted_.

The next thing Matt saw was the strange, filtered darkness of his small bedroom. It wasn't morning, his phone wasn't buzzing. Something was amiss, something close by. He felt like he had developed some kind of third eye or sixth sense that could only, apparently, snap him sharp from a deep dream, leaving him wary and disoriented.

The disorientation evaporated instantly, violently, when he heard a sharp _thump_. Like a cannonball, he went tearing out of the bed, the room, and blasted into the living room

It was exactly as bad as it could have been: The Aug was curled on his side by the couch, shoulders hiked to his ears, not quite upright, not quite heaving. His eyes were glassy with tears, though he didn't seem to be crying so much as- as _choking_.

“What- _shit_ , what's wrong, what the _fuck_ ,” he fell to his knees, slapping his broad palm between Mercy's shoulder blades. Nothing happened. He slapped him again, panicking at the redness of the Aug's cheeks, the strange mottling of it on his neck. What the fuck, what the fuck. “What's wrong?”

It fell on deaf ears; Mercy continued to wheeze and claw the carpet.

“I'm- I'm gonna call- a-” Matt flung himself back up and ran back into the bedroom, he needed his phone _now_. The line rang once and clicked over.

“Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?”

“Uh, fuck, um,” he tried to remember what Rey had told him, from when she had worked the trauma lines a few years ago. “Matt- Matthew Kee. I'm at the twenty-eight hundred block on northwest Kelton, uh, between one-thirty and one-thirty-one. Please, send help, my friend, he's--”

Matt's heart stopped. As he rounded the couch again, he found Mercy on his back. He wasn't moving. Shaking, Matt shoved his fingers against the Aug's warm- overwarm- neck. “-he's not, not breathing, please, send someone _now_ , he has- has a pulse, oh my god, fuck, help, his name is Mercy--”

The man on the line was talking, but Matt couldn't hear a word.  
  


* * *

  
The rest was a blur: The man's voice has broken through, at some point. Red and blue lights had screamed into the parking lot, and two ambulance technicians had stormed up the stairs and taken over Matt's living room as though it were the end of the world. As far as Matt could tell, it was. He vaguely remembered shoving himself into jeans, into shoes. Grabbing a satchel he had used back in school and cramming Mercy's paperwork into it, his Padd.

He had never ridden in an ambulance before.

Arriving at the hospital- the closer one, the _wrong_ one- he was shocked to find that, in addition to holding Mercy's limp hand in his the entire ride, he had also held, like a crazy person, the afghan. Why had he grabbed the afghan?

_Why the fuck did he have this goddamn afghan?_

Matt had to watch as Mercy was wheeled away, down an emergency corridor rather a lot like the one in the hospital on the other side of the river. Maybe they had been designed by the same person. Maybe sourced from the same architectural firm. In an absolute daze, he filled the paperwork that the overseeing nurse had pushed his way. He was surprised to find that he had memorized the identification number Dr Gallia had assigned his Aug, all twelve digits of it.

Waiting in the patient lounge, pacing, he called Rey, but she didn't answer. He almost called her father, a man who wanted Matt to call him Uncle Luke, but they hadn't spoken in almost a year, and it was, even to his overwhelmed, sleep-deprived mania, an absurd idea.

After leaving another voicemail for Rey, he collapsed in to a not-quite-comfortable chair, the afghan in the seat beside, and wondered when Dr Gallia would come striding down the hall in her impeccable coat and heels, and demand he return his folder, his claim to Mercy's safety.

He wondered if Mercy would keep his name. Keep 'Kee.'

It shouldn't have surprised him, when a nurse eventually came for him, that he would doze off. Basic math had expressed earlier that he'd been asleep an hour and a half before this new emergency had ripped him out of his comforters. Still, he startled somewhat when a young woman, her hair in an enormous red bun, tapped his shoulder and woke him out of a thin nap.

“Mister Kee? You can come back now, he's stable.”

“What? He- he's okay?”

She smiled, pointing to his grandmother's blanket, “Would you like me to carry this for you?”

They departed the waiting room directly through the emergency corridor, banking a sharp right before getting too far. Through a large side door, there was a small office, and through another large door there was a long hall, divided up by tens of curtains, all on shiny steel rods that hung in perfect parallels all across the ceiling. At the eight or ninth division, the nurse brought him into a pod where the soft sound of beeping seemed to fill the air like cotton. Mercy was propped up in a bed, the headboard raised almost to sitting. His hair looked like fire against all of the white. A breathing mask perched loose on his face, as though he'd been fiddling with it; he was awake, but staring off into space. He closed his eyes without noticing Matt and the nurse coming closer.

Matt whispered, “What happened?”

The nurse, her own red hair obviously dyed when Matt saw it in comparison to Mercy's, pulled a clipboard from the bed's foot and scanned it. Mercy opened his eyes and this time rolled his head toward the blonde; his eyes narrowed, evaluating.

“We were able to get his records from Callaway North General; it looks like he had an allergic reaction to the, let's see, oxaprozin he was recently prescribed. That, and, it looks like, shrimp protein. According to the E-M-T report, he was entering into semi-severe anaphylaxis and was administered epinephrine.”

“Shrimp...?” Matt's head was swimming; too little sleep and too many medical terms. “Oh. Oh, my god, the ramen. But I thought cheap ramen didn't have real shrimp in it?”

The nurse raised her eyebrows in confusion, though it was clear she found his plaintive questioning of her to be vastly amusing. “I've been surprised by cheap food before, myself.”

“Matt...” a very small voice wavered nearby. Mercy's pale hands were fisted in the blanket, not quite shaking. “I'm sorry.”

Matt shook his head, shuffling close to lay his hand down on the redhead's shoulder. They had put him in a pale yellow hospital top. The nurse was replacing the board, and she clasped her hands together before beginning to pull on the wraparound curtain. “He's already out of the danger zone for a biphasic reaction, which is excellent, in light of this bad luck. The doctor wants to keep him for a few more hours, though, to be safe.”

“That's fine,” Matt mumbled, running his thumb back and forth along the fabric that warmed Mercy's shoulder.

“The doctor will be round shortly,” she added, ducking away to deal with whatever next crisis was on her list.

The two young men stared at each other for a few moments, what felt like too long entirely, before Matt pulled away and dragged the only seat available: a physician's spinning stool. He rolled up close and leaned over his legs. “Shit. You really scared me.”

“I know,” Mercy pressed his cheek to the pillows to look down. “I. Matt. It's...”

The Aug couldn't seem to settle on any one thing, only blinked back the moisture that threatened his eyes and pulled the mask down to rest on his neck.

“Should you be doing that?”

Mercy was quiet for a moment before smiling, “I'm not dead, yet.”  
  
  


* * *

 

Mercy had protested, almost loudly, almost willfully, that they not waste any more time on him at the hospital. That he felt fine enough, and that he was ready to go. Matt insisted he be moved into a private room and that was the end of the argument.

“I know you're worried about running into... one of them,” Matt said, lowering the blinds and grabbing his satchel off of the little bench seat that was installed along one wall. It was about eight in the morning now, strangely grey outside. “But it'll be okay. You'll be fine in here. I'm sure you will.”

Mercy nodded, very slowly, still wary. He glanced to the needle in his arm; Matt was terrified of whatever drug was currently coursing through the redhead's veins. It may not be what he was allergic to, but was it like the things he had been doped with while trapped by the gang? Would this set him back? It was too soon to tell, too complicated. There was nothing for it.

“Rey got back to me. She's going to come here and get me, we'll get the shopping done, then we'll come back and, uh, get you checked out. Do you think you can just relax and maybe sleep?” the blonde stood at the foot of the bed, nervous to leave.

“This must be. So. Expensive,” the Aug said, slurred, through his crashing exhaustion. Matt lay his hand down on his ankle. Even beneath the blankets, it seemed small.

“Don't worry about that. Please?” Matt squeezed the sharp bones, gently, considering. “I have an... an account. Just let me take care of you.”

He felt his face, all the way to his ears, getting hot. Mercy only sighed, blinking heavily. Matt could see how tired he was, how pinched his eyes were becoming. He had also noticed that when the Aug was inclined to argue, but kept his mouth shut, he would wrinkle his nose. It was a brief and childish gesture; Matt thought it was adorable, and had begin to look forward to when Mercy felt more comfortable, to when he would argue his points as emphatically as he had when they wheeled him from one bed to the next.

“Matt-”

“Shh,” Matt soothed, drawing the afghan from Mercy's feet up to his shoulders, tucking him in. “You're so tired. Go to sleep.”

“Mmph,” Mercy sniffed, his head turning to rest against the freshly fluffed pillows. It looked like he couldn't fight it anymore; the night, the stress, the drugs. Matt wanted to curl up in a hole and sleep for a year, himself.

Instead, he squared his shoulders and pulled his phone from his pocket. It had just begun buzzing, Rey was outside, and there was still so much work to do.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt is fairly grumpy, Rey is a tiny bit grumpy, and Poe is an actual ray of sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you thank you thank you AtlinMerrick for helping me to get this far, this fast!! You are so fantastic, so wonderful. I appreciate and admire you. THANK YOU.
> 
> 2) In defense of how much Matt spends: Inflation.

Matt had actually been looking forward to shopping, and catching up with Rey, until he saw Poe Dameron leaning against her car, his warm and open face smiling kindly right at him.

“Hey, buddy, hope you don't mind me tagging along,” he grinned, shrugging one shoulder while Rey looked at Matt with an expression that suggested, _No, you do not mind at all, RIGHT, Matt?_

Out loud, she said, “Poe's leaving town for a conference next week, so we're trying to cram in more time.”

Matt nodded, thinking that surely they already saw enough of each other. “I don't care- mind. I'm really glad you could help me out on such short notice.”

Poe was letting himself into the backseat, still so friendly and still so _annoying_. Matt startled forward; “Oh, hey man, you don't have to sit in the back. Sit with your girlfriend.”

“It's fine!” Poe laughed, “You're taller, way taller. Go ahead.”

 _Fuck_. Why couldn't he be an asshole so Matt would have a _reason_ to dislike him? The doors lowered with a telltale creak. It would, like as not, be a long morning.

 

* * *

 

Matt was like a machine in the AerCo. On the ride over, he'd moved more than enough credits from his savings, and was barely registering the price tags. There were two carts; one Rey pushed until it got heavy with household supplies, at which time Poe, gentlemanly and smooth, took over. Rey was now juggling the two new pillows while they rampaged through the grocery area of the warehouse shop.

“He must be staying with you for a while if you're getting pillows and blankets, hunh, Matt?” Rey wondered aloud, letting them drop back into the basket while Poe looked on.

“Yeah, I think so,” Matt shrugged, grabbing several more cans of soup and letting them tumble into the second cart. He was trying to remember all of the things that had passed through his head as 'should get' and 'will need' over the last couple days. It was all becoming a sort of sleep-deprived blur at this stage, as though he had adopted a baby. The one thing he was sure of was the bubble bath: there were three different kinds in the basket Poe pushed.

“How long do you think?” Rey asked after he'd added another several tins of vegetables and fruits into the cart. Going to the air market for fresh was difficult enough as it is, and he doubted his new circumstances would make it any easier. The question she was asking, though; there was something off about it. He paused, glancing at Rey and then at Poe, who leaned on the other cart with an expression that belied any compunction he may have had with this venture.

Matt shook his head, ire burbling low in his stomach. “Well, I don't know. He doesn't really have anywhere to go.”

Cube could send him to a lot of places, in reality. But he didn't want that.

“Anyway,” he turned sharply so he wouldn't have to see her face and its suspicious cast, “I have power of authority that lasts at least a year, so. At least a year.”

Poe let out a low whistle, “Wow, man, that's incredible. You're really going all out.”

Matt wanted to be mad about Poe's opinion, but he heard the earnest and impressed tone and for a moment, was actually grateful to the older man. He rolled his shoulders, “Yeah. I guess. I just feel responsible.”

“Didn't he literally stumble into you?” Rey persisted, concern so clear in her voice, Matt had to actively look at his anger and persuade it down.

“Yeah,” he finally acquiesced, dropping miscellaneous condiments and sauces into the basket. There was easily four hundred credits worth of food already, and another six hundred in house things. But he needed all the cleaning agents and the pillows and the blankets and the pills that Mercy could actually take, and everything else. It would be _months_ before he had to buy anything for the house beside toilet tissue and toothpaste. It was worth it. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm gonna take care of him.”

Wisely, Rey chose not to respond. They finished the shopping with her and Poe chatting amiably about his upcoming conference, where he would be giving a presentation on the move toward space flight over typical aerial flight and the value of opening that field of study up to younger students. It made Matt's chest ache. Space. Where Raymus Antilles and so many others explored the vast, unending new freedom of the galaxy.

Rey was halfway to completing her piloting training, and had three separate licenses already under her belt.

Matt fixed wiring problems in fancy corporate buildings. He hadn't seen work on a radar array since- February.

It didn't matter. If it was going to happen, it would. He was lucky to be where he was. At least his contract was _with_ FOA.

Bagging and packing everything into the car was an adventure, to say the least, but they managed, leaving room for Mercy when it was time to pick him up. It was only noon. They pulled into a diner for lunch, Matt insisting it was his treat.

“Matt, you just spent a ton of money at AerCo. It's fine,” Rey protested, not even opening her menu.

“It's fine. It's not even a dent, really. Besides, you guys helped me out a lot today, and- well, come on, just let me treat you, okay?”

Poe grinned and opened his menu, “I, for one, would be delighted. Drinks included?”

“Obviously,” Matt muttered, for a moment not actively hating the other man, and then hating himself for letting his guard down.

 

* * *

 

While they waited for the orders, Matt made his way through two lemonades and then a full explanation of how the Aug had entered his life, and everything that had happened since then. It seemed fantastic and unlikely, even though he was living it.

“He must have been so scared,” Poe intoned, sipping his large, brightly colored alcohol. “I can't even wrap my head around that, escaping from a gang.”

“He's been through a lot, I think. Not just the being stuck with them, but... I don't know. Well,” he tried, wondering how much he wanted to share. It was hard to decide what would be enough, and what would constitute a betrayal. “They made him take drugs. He doesn't remember some of the things he's said.”

“Well... I mean. What if he's lying?” Rey asked gently, brown eyes so sweet, Matt's anger felt like a punch.

“He's not,” the blonde snapped, “He's a nice guy. He just- he's sick.”

“Okay,” Rey said softly, leaning her chin into her hand, “I'm just kind of worried.”

“Well you worry and I'll be fine. I'm telling you, he's just had a really hard time. Doctor Gallia is going to try and find his family and I'm going to help him get better.”

Poe wrapped his fingers around Rey's free hand, “Matt, it sounds like you're doing something really huge. I can't imagine how life-changing this must be for, uh, what's his name again?”

“Mercy. Until they find out what his birth name is, I guess. That's what he wanted to be called.”

“That's beautiful, I'm looking forward to meeting him.”

“Well. He'll be kind of out of it, probably. So. Don't. I don't know, don't have high expectations or anything.”

Rey pulled back from the table as the food arrived; “Why is he in the hospital right now? Treatment?”

“We haven't gotten that far yet,” Matt grimaced, the smell of his food off-putting under the circumstances.

“Your messages really freaked me out, I'm sorry my phone was on silent.”

“It's okay, I was just- panicking. I know what happened now,” he accepted a third refill on the tart lemonade. “Mercy, he had an allergic reaction to the pain killer Gallia gave him, and then, fuck, I made him ramen and I guess the shrimp in it was real? And he's allergic to fucking shellfish, too. So. Yeah.”

“Wow, that is some bad luck,” Poe mused, forking his way through a pile of pasta that Matt could only see as a red pile of carbohydrates. Rey was picking through her salad, no vinaigrette. Poe had interjected as she made her choice, requesting they add double chicken, for the protein. Her red face and bluster over it being too much was taken in stride, but it made Matt worry. She had eaten half of the chicken, at least.

“He's going to be okay, though,” Matt finally responded, glancing out at the car to be sure no one was breaking the windows and stealing his haul. “He's tough.”

 

* * *

 

Traffic was minimal on their way back to the hospital; flyers were out in droves above them, though, their engines buzzing like far-off, mammoth hummingbirds. Their gravity centers seemed to push down on the cars below, self-satisfied and heavy. Matt knew he was just jealous, had considered becoming a sky cabbie himself, but Rey had convinced him to keep dreaming: To aim higher.

He tipped his head back as she drove them into the hospital parking area, took a deep breath. He felt a kind of anxiousness just behind his sternum, like someone had tied a knot behind his ribs and was pulling, tugging him sharply forward. It also felt like the knot's string, or its _rope_ , was in turn wrapped around the Aug, because the sense that he had been out of Matt's sight for too long was intense to the point of distraction. There was a quiet part of him that had rarely spoken up in his life, and it was waking, whispering, though Matt couldn't quite understand what it was on about.

All it had for him was the sneaking, warbling desire to get back to Mercy, get him home, and keep him safe.

And wasn't that what he was planning to do? So why the anxiety?

What had Mercy said yesterday, in Gallia's tidy office? He'd been coerced? Poe was right that this was a life changing venture. After all the violence and evil he must have seen, may have had to participate in. Matt couldn't imagine his Aug hurting anyone, ever. But. He had the tattoo, and the marks, and he forgot things. What else had he forgotten, that Matt would be glad that Rey didn't know?

He heaved himself out of the car. It didn't matter.

Matt hadn't been lying when he told Mercy that this was the first thing that had made sense to him in a long time. The last few years were blurry for him, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Rey and Poe waited outside, largely because, though Matt had invited Rey along to be polite, he knew she would decline. Rey didn't do hospitals. Not willingly.

He made his way through as quickly as he could; he was already dreading the unpacking and putting away of everything in his best friend's car. Maybe if he was lucky, he could pull off a short nap. Or at least go to bed early. His weekend, in all its insanity, was nearly over, and he was expected back in uniform on Sunday.

Better do laundry.

He knocked lightly on Mercy's door before letting himself in, gearing up to speak. He had already confirmed with the nurse practitioner that the Aug was clear for take-off, provided he bring the remaining oxaprozin tablets in for disposal. What the nurse had not mentioned was that another person was already waiting in the room:

His heart stopped.

In a microsecond his brain telegraphed: _Gang?! No- uniform. Cop! They're taking him away- they're taking him- is he okay? I fucked up, is he okay?_

Frozen, the first thing he registered was Mercy's hands, folded neatly on his stomach, over the afghan, with little blue caps on all of his fingers. His gaze jerked upward along the pale lines of Mercy's arms, to the pale yellow hospital shirt, finally landing on his face: The redhead was looking back at him, expression open and sleepy. He looked drained but not upset. Matt's feet carried him halfway into the room before he registered moving, and, vaguely, he heard the cop- a woman with fluffy blonde hair halfway between her ears and shoulders- speaking. Mercy tracked him the whole way, blinking slow and easy.

Arriving at his side, feeling better for standing in between the Aug and the officer sitting on the foot of Mercy's bed, he quickly touched the redhead's shoulder and said, low, “Are you okay?”

It was all that mattered.

“I'm fine,” the other said, lifting his hands to show Matt his hands, loosely clawed, “They cut my fingernails but I kept scratching.”

It's the best possible thing he could have said; Matt laughed, just a little bit, and let his hand drift back to his own side.

“You must be Matthew Kee,” the officer interrupted, firm but without menace. She was extending her hand, “I'm detective Cassandra Anderson; I'm with the organized crime unit. Adi mentioned the two of you to me and I happened to be in the area.”

Matt, heart still pulling him toward panic, accepted the handshake, “Dr Gallia?”

“Yes. Now- I can see that you're worried, but don't be. I'm not here to upset you or Mercy. We were just getting to know one another,” she sat back down on the edge of the bed, her brown eyes warm. Even though she was part of a leg of Cube, she seemed non-threatening enough. Matt wanted to stay wary.

He looked at Mercy, who was leaning back and staring at the bag hanging near his bed. It was half full of a clear, innocuous fluid. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Mercy shrugged, lifting one hand as though he wanted to scratch at his arm. He let it drop. “Opiates.”

Matt nodded, almost reaching out again, wanting to smooth the sad line between Mercy's pale eyebrows.

“I've been working the gang unit for six years,” the detective said, leaning forward over her knee, “And I have never seen someone come out of the Ma-Ma clan as intact as you. I am frankly fucking impressed.”

Mercy flushed, his eyes going wide and overworking to look elsewhere in the room. Matt finally let his hand out to touch the Aug's arm, pressing his thumb carefully into the yellow shirt. The grateful look he received was massive and intense, followed by another glance to the bag of what was presumably medicine he _really should not be taking_.

“Here's my contact information. When you're ready to discuss what we talked about?” Anderson handed Matt the card but raised her eyebrows at the Aug.

“Y-Yes, ma'am,” he mumbled, still flushed red, blue-capped fingertips picking at the edge of the afghan. As soon as the detective left the room, giving them a passing but intense _be careful_ , Matt sat by Mercy's hip, taking both his shaky hands in his own.

“Are you really okay? You can tell me.”

Mercy shook his head no, said, “Yes.”

Matt took a deep breath. “I'm going to let the nurse know we're ready to get going. Do you... want to go home?”

“Y-Yeah, yes, please,” Mercy looked down, scrunching his shoulders before letting them droop again. His mood had undergone an absolute one-eighty from Matt's arrival; it was troubling. He whispered, “I'm really tired.”

“I know,” Matt let his thumbs run along the top of the Aug's pale hands for one long moment before disengaging, “I'll be back in a minute.”

Signing the paperwork at the desk felt like confirmation, as did wheeling Mercy out of the hospital, into the cool autumn afternoon. He was back in his own clothes, the arms of the coverall tied around his soft waist; he looked uncomfortable as ever being at the center of attention. But it was confirmation, still: That Matt would help him into Rey's car and take him home. That he would unpack all of the things he had purchased to ease the way. That the Aug trusted him.

That he would do anything to make right everything that had gone wrong. He would put his life on hold indefinitely, because he knew he could. It felt like the most natural thing in the world; Mercy reached up just as the car came in sight, Rey and Poe leaning on it, waiting. Matt felt the little caps brush his hand.

It was all of it worth that trust.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Rey both go for the jugular, Mercy sleepwalks into his own backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's running on fumes

Mercy carried a pillow and leaned heavily into Matt's side. He had dozed off in the car, hands limp in his lap, and was shaky and disconnected now that they were making their way into the building, into the elevator.

The ride had been quiet, Matt having loaded Mercy in behind Rey personally. Fixing his hair into the ugly green beanie and wedging the pillow between the redhead's skull and the window had been final touches on easing his quiet anxiety over being seen, and it must have been enough- or Mercy really was that beat- because he fell asleep almost immediately.

Poe had fiddled with the radio, landing on classic rock, while Rey's gaze had flit in the rear view mirror, and in her visual readout panels. Gas, mileage, engine, systems, and passengers; the screen cycled seamlessly, reporting changes as needed. Matt wanted to be furious that her look in the mirror suggested she was waiting for Mercy to spring into murderous action.

But.

He had felt the same, once.

While Rey and Poe went back down for another round of bags, Matt led Mercy to the couch. He was so drowsy, frowning and looking at the pillow as though he'd never seen one.

“I'll put the case on it later, just lay down for now,” Matt said, gently pulling it away from Mercy's strangely clawed grasp. “Are you okay?”

The redhead watched as Matt placed the pillow and unfurled the folded afghan. His eyes were focused, but only into the middle distance. Finally he looked up and seemed to see Matt. “How... are you doing all this?”

Matt glanced at the first pile of bags stacked in the kitchen area. “Savings, mostly.”

Mercy looked over as well and lifted his shoulders to his ears, flushing. Matt had the sense that perhaps he hadn't exactly answered the question. Matt tapped one of the Aug's narrow shoulders and with that, he lay willingly down, staring into the blank television, his expression still concerned.

There was nothing for it. Matt still had to help with the hauling and unloading of everything he'd bought that day; on the heels of that thought, Rey and Poe came noisily back into the apartment. He accepted the key card they had borrowed and the three of them headed back down. There was still entirely too much to do.

 

* * *

 

Poe was in the middle of an entirely un-asked for overhaul of Matt's cupboards when Rey slipped to his side. She had been stuffing trash into a bag after their methodical but frenzied un-boxing and un-packaging of all the loose household items. Matt was trying to find it in himself to be sour, but his cupboards were starting to look so full and so organized, it was difficult.

Additionally, he was exhausted.

Mercy had fallen back asleep, afghan loose around his sharp shoulders and pale hands curled beneath his chin. He looked closer to twenty with the worry off of his face, his pale eyebrows relaxed.

It made Matt more relaxed, himself, to see that. Rey stood a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. Her loose tunic and capris made her look both taller and heavier than she actually was. “Well,” she started, quiet, with that same worry in her eyes as Matt had seen in the car, “he's... fatter than I'd imagined.”

Matt balked, blood roiling, “He's not- he's a little chub- what the _fuck_ , Rey?”

Poe turned around, a can of vegetables in each hand.

“I'm not trying to- _Matt_ ,” she huffed, taking half a step back but dropping her voice lower, “I'm just saying it's weird. You said he was on drugs, and not eating well, but he's- a little overweight for his. Shape.”

Matt threw his hands in the air, wanting to throw something. It took every ounce of himself, along with seeing Poe put the cans down and advance to Rey's side, to not start screaming. “You don't know,” he hissed, “What Mercy's _been_ through. He's been _trapped_ , and maybe if you had half a decent idea of how _nutrition_ worked, you'd understand why he looks the way he does. Which, by the way, is _fine_!”

Mercy stirred on the couch and Rey clenched her jaw.

“Hey, maybe it's about time we headed out, hunh?” Poe smiled, tight but earnest.

“I'm trying to tell you it's suspicious, Matthew Kee,” Rey bit out, her shoulders tight beneath Poe's hands. “I don't want to see you getting _hurt_.”

Poe was guiding her toward the door, though she was digging in her heels, pretty brown eyes sparkling with fury that had more to do with Matt's insinuating things about her own history than being argued with. Matt knew it. A sore subject was a sore subject. “Thank you for helping us get situated,” he bit out, feeling his rage like ants marching in his veins, itchy and unstoppable, “We'll be fine. Goodbye.”

The shorter man escorted Rey out, shooting Matt a mature and apologetic look that Matt wanted to punch off of his handsome face. With a restrained grunt, Matt kicked the dryer and then snapped his attention to Mercy; still, thank the stars, sleeping. It must be the tail ends of the drugs.

“Shit,” he groaned, the warning signs of a headache nipping at his periphery.

A knock, three raps in firm succession, jolted him- perhaps it was Poe come to grab something left behind. He yanked the door open, but was shocked to find not Poe, or even Rey, but Maz- the building manager.

“Oh- Mrs Kanata, um-” Matt's blood seemed to stop short, leaving him creaking in place and ready to drop though the floor. Maz had been largely out of sight over the weekend. His vacillation between worrying and not worrying over her potential interference in his plans had been naive; she had the power to upend his entire existence. To eradicate the building block on which he'd pitched his entire ability to care for his Aug.

“Four came up, two came down,” Maz said, short and spry and sun spotted. Her hands were clasped, loose, behind her back. She may as well have been wielding a mace.

“Uh, yeah- my friends, we're-” he was panicking. There was no other way to define the sinking dread that left him paralyzed in the doorway. She was angling, seeing beyond him. Mercy, on the couch, sleeping his last easy sleep before Maz reported him to the employee housing commission. _Shit_.

“A young lady?” Maz's eyes twinkled.

Matt's voice sounded reedy and strangled to himself, and he wondered how old Maz heard it: “Man- A man.”

She was still smiling, “I received a few complaints from your neighbors, Mister Kee. Yelling, shouting, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he swallowed, taking a page from Mercy's incredibly polite book.

“Why don't you come downstairs with me, Matt. We have some speaking to do,” she was already turning, about to head down the hall, “And I have a few light bulbs that need replacing. How tall are you, exactly?”

“Six foot four, ma'am,” he mumbled, gut clenching. He had the money for a deposit, and for a moving van, but finding a place as well-priced and secure as this development would be a nightmare. Getting kicked out for non-compliance would probably ruin his prospects. Shit, _shit._

Maz held the elevator open for him. He stepped in, heart heavy.

* * *

 

An hour later, Matt slipped back into his apartment. Downstairs, Maz's light bulbs were changed and her stove had been cleaned under. Her air conditioning vents were clear, her vacuuming was done. Even her dishes were done. Matt was shell-shocked, stunned. He now knew more about Maz's life, and her pets, than he had any right to know. But she had shown him to her door, making him promise to come back soon for another visit.

Numb, he had nodded, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.

“And Matt,” she had added, small hands steepled and conspiring, “You'll have to keep it down in your apartment. Can you do that?”

He had nodded, face flushing with a peculiar shame. Whatever she thought, whatever it meant to her, he had her silence, and he would do any number of her chores to keep it. Right where he had had to leave him, curled up in a ball on the couch, was the Aug. Matt sighed, relieved and finding himself feeling out of place in his hard-won space. There were still cans and boxes on the counter. There was still trash. But it could wait.

Mercy would probably be ill for the next few days, out of sorts. His blood tests would be back soon, and Matt would have to take an extra afternoon or morning off to take him to whoever was assigned to be his physician. Hopefully they would be as understanding and kind as the white-haired phlebotomist who had treated Mercy's elbows.

“Mercy Kee,” he whispered, leaning over the back of the couch to brush the Aug's hair away from his eyes and nose. He hated the idea of going to work in the morning, of leaving the Aug alone when he was sure to be out of sorts and in need of companionship.

Or, Matt considered, dropping into his bed for a nap, it was he who craved the companionship, especially after arguing Rey off for who knew how long they would hold today's grudge. At least Taun We was the Sunday desk person.

He next woke as though he had been in the middle of his last thought, in the middle of something important he had forgotten, and it left him disconcerted. What had woken him? He stretched and glanced toward the window, where the half-drawn curtain looked out into what felt like dusk.

He heard it, then, the murmuring, and then: a tapping, arrhythmic and soft.

He groaned and pulled himself, more than a little begrudgingly, from the bed.

At first, he couldn't find Mercy. He wasn't on the couch, and wasn't immediately in sight.

“Ma.”

Matt heard it, soft and sad, in the corner where his bedroom wall met the living room. Mercy was curled, impossibly small, in the space. He walked over, slow, steady, and crouched down in front of the Aug, whose eyes were strangely vacant as he stared into the halflight.

“Mercy?”

“Shh,” the redhead twitched, his shoulders jerking toward his collar bones. He tapped again at the wall, his fingertips still safe from scratching in their little blue prisons. “Kay doesn't like you. Neither does Caleb.”

“Red, hey,” Matt wanted to touch his knee, or his ankle or shoulder, somewhere, and just tip him into wakefulness. There was something so incredibly sad about his voice, about the way he shook, his toes curling in the socks that Matt had insisted he wear, being that they didn't have holes.

“Nobody does- so,” Mercy went on whispering, tapping. “You should just be good, okay?”

Matt sighed and stood very carefully. If this was a night terror, at least it was quiet. He grabbed the afghan from the couch and shook it out before approaching the dazed redhead. Sitting against the wall, he eased the afghan around the sleepwalking man, going slow and whispering, “Shhh, shhh,” as though it were the right thing to say.

Mercy went willingly enough into the wrap, letting himself rest against Matt's chest, under his arm. “Matt,” he mumbled, pulling his knees into the blanket and shaking his head. His hair was still soft, if frizzy, under Matt's chin, “You have to be. More careful. Ma's gonna- she's gonna...”

“What?” Matt asked, finding his thumb passing itself back and forth over Mercy's shoulder, unthinking, “What is she going to do?”

But Mercy was already snoring softly, going limp in his grasp.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, they drank coffee together. Mercy was drowsy, jumpy and eyeing the windows, but not belligerent. Car doors slamming, and feet pounding in the hallways, were his greatest triggers. He had nearly spilled coffee on himself twice, but laughed at himself each time.

“You can message me from the Padd if there's an emergency, it's linked,” Matt said at the door, smiling enough that the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Okay,” the redhead pulled his feet up on the couch, the Padd waiting by his hip. He looked about ready to fall back asleep, blue eyes half-closed as he took another sip of his coffee. The Aug didn't seem to recall their run-in last night, from the way he had fallen into a deeper sleep and had been carried without incident back to the couch. He didn't seem to recall the way he had held on to Matt's hand, like a child, for a moment, before relaxing against his new pillow.

As Matt stepped past the threshold, into his new normal, he heard the sound of a mug settling on the coffee table.

“Matt, while you're gone...” Mercy called, waiting for the blonde to look back before he continued: “I won't steal anything. Promise.”

Matt snorted, the Aug grinned- the blue in his eyes was bright and warm with amusement.

They were going to make it.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot points and good news, and forward motion on the things Matt is beginning to recognize as 'feelings.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is largely for roachproblem, who left me so many encouraging and heart-warming comments and really helped give me that oomph I needed to wrap this chapter up. Thank you so much for every word, I mean it. I'm one of those sensitive idiot writers who only produces content for rare pairs in tiny fandoms, so it's easy to get looked over. Every single comment you left me made my whole day. THANK YOU. I also want to give a shout out to theweddingofthefoxes, who is my twin and the best possible friend to have in your corner when you're working through a tough chapter. She is the cheering squad ever writer dreams of writing with and writing for. THANK YOU. <3

Their luck held out.

Following his hospital stay, the Aug woke that night a shivering, vomiting mess, spending more than half of his time hunched over the toilet or rolled up in various ball shapes in the bath tub or on the couch.

Matt tried to be there for him, but with work, and knowing he could only leave two paracetamol and a dyphendydramine for sleep, there was little he could do- he slept fitfully through the night. Heading to work Sunday morning while Mercy huddled around the toilet had been heartbreaking, had seemed like it should be impossible, except the redhead had looked up at him and grinned, mumbling, “Deja vu...”

Taun Wei had been as distant and impersonal to him as always, but it was a relief not to have to face Rey. Taun Wei stopped him before he had quite left the service desk, already looking over the assignments on his small work Padd. Her voice was light, but carried.

“Wait, Matthew. You have one more, it's just coming in. Old-fashioned,” she had her hand on the little printer between the monitors as it hummed. “Over at the Hadden building.”

Matt frowned, leaning his hip against he counter even though he knew Taun Wei hated it. “Jesus, did they finally get one of those requisitions? I only asked three times.”

He knew he might be coming off as over-aggressive, but he had slept so poorly, he could feel the grumpiness taking over. With a short sigh, he stood up straight, not wanting to start anything his attitude couldn't finish. Still, Taun Wei frowned; “What do you mean? There's only this one on record. This is the response.”

“No, that doesn't make sense. I've put in a req every single time they sent me over there.”

Taun Wei passed the report over to him with an impassive expression. “This is it.”

Matt scanned the sheet of warm paper and found that the dates supported her argument: There was the request for parts made barely a week ago, when Mercy had slammed into him, and here was the relatively speedy response. An approval and an order to head out to Callaway East that afternoon or the next.

“This... doesn't make sense,” he looked at her, irate but knowing she had nothing to do with it. She shrugged, artful, with her long neck and beautiful head scarf like a painting. Matt huffed and stuffed the sheet in his back pocket. “Whatever, I'm on it.”  
  


* * *

 

Matt was so wound up with nerves that he may encounter the thugs from last week, the chirp of his phone nearly gave him a heart attack. He fumbled to get his tools put down, looking back and forth in the alleyway, and pulled the mobile out of his work belt. It was an unknown number, but he answered, never satisfied to leave a call to voicemail.

Twenty minutes later, he had all the major results of Mercy's tests and a tentatively scheduled meeting with the appointed physician. Except for the malnutrition, Mercy's blood came back free and clear of disease, and Matt could not believe how grateful he was to hear it. He thanked the tech profusely and pocketed the old Seed phone, wanting to call Rey or even Luke. Or his parents, suddenly, though he knew he couldn't.

Tears abruptly filled his eyes. He leaned against the big grey-blue building and took a deep breath, then decided he would wait to tell Mercy in person about the follow-up.

He needed to have something to look forward to.  
  


* * *

 

It was a stairs kind of day by the time he got back to the apartment building; he was full of strange, nervous energy, and a kind of overwrought adrenaline that had him vaulting up all three stories two steps at a time. Breathing heavily, he got into the apartment without embarrassing himself on any of the landings, and was greeted by the startling sight of his television completely gutted and its tinier parts arranged neatly on the coffee table.

“Uh, Mercy?” the screen was tilted against the wall it usually lived on, and the larger pieces, its frame, were nearby- all arranged in a row. The coffee table was so organized with bits and pieces it looked computerized. Washers, nuts, bolts, even wires- all arranged in neat columns and rows, all collated. It looked like a robotic crime scene, carried out by an obsessive compulsive droid.

“On the counter...” Mercy's voice came, soft and tired, from the bathroom; Matt looked into the kitchen area, unzipping his coverall as he went. There was a sandwich, pickle, and a baggie of chips sitting under a Fresh-Keep dome, with a little folded card that read _for Matt_. His heart palpated, thick with an only passingly familiar feeling. When was the last time he'd come home to something like this?

Heat passed across his eyes for the second time that day, but he blinked it off. The bathroom door was open, inviting.

“Hey,” he murmured, tapping the door frame with one hand, holding the food in his other. It was turkey and ham, piled high with veggies. “You made this for me?”

“That's what the card said, didn't it?” Mercy groused, but then he smiled so sweet it was obvious it meant the world to him that Matt was going to eat it. The blonde settled on the floor by the tub, noticing for the first time that he was ravenous.

“You, uh, you killed my TV,” he said after swallowing the first big bite, after chasing it with one of the carbonated drinks he'd splurged on. The Aug was sitting with his knees up, his arms wrapped loose around them; the water was still foamy and steaming, and Matt thought he could see a few of the blue fingernail caps bobbing in the vague current.

Mercy hunched his shoulders, looking vaguely guilty but mostly pleased with himself. “I'm fixing it.”

“I tried a few times, but. I got frustrated,” Matt admitted, looking sidelong at the way Mercy's hair was only damp at the ends. He really hadn't been in very long.

“I thought I could finish it today, but I couldn't. I was- freaking out. So I'm in here. I took everything you left me,” Mercy admitted back, voice soft and sad.

Matt shrugged, “That's okay. That's why I left them. How are you feeling now?”

“Better. Not great,” the Aug's voice went mouse-quiet, “I lost a few hours.”

Matt had no idea what to say to such a terrifying statement; he had plenty of experience with sleeping at odd times in the day and losing hours of productivity that way, but he had no idea what it was like to simply awake to himself in the middle of his life unaware of what had happened in the last so many hours.

Or, maybe he did, in a way- if waking up with Mercy in his life was the metaphor.

Carefully, he lifted his hand and touched his charge's knee, needing to be of some comfort, of some use. Mercy regarded the touch with an expression that seemed to be everything in between wary and hopeful, his eyes clicking to an almost-tune until his gaze finally settled in the middle distance- his lips were pinched slightly, as though he were trying to not to say anything, not to make a sound.

Matt watched with interest, trying to suss out what the other man could possibly be going through. His skin was rose-red where it met the water, and across his nose, perhaps from the steam. Abruptly, Mercy brought his nearer hand up and tucked some of his limp hair behind his ear- Matt could see that the ear, too, was rosy.

Matt let his hand fall away, fingertips going to trail in the water. With his free hand he finished his sandwich and then the pickle, still not sure what to say. Mercy let his forehead rest on his knees, apparently content to let the discussion drop. The blonde was still vaguely flummoxed by Mercy's lack of compunction with being seen in the bath, though to be fair, there was nothing on display exactly. Briefly, as Mercy breathed, Matt could see a pinkish nipple and the soft skin that pushed around it, and that was it. He stared for a moment and then took another drink of his soda, frowning. It was like there was a message here that was being sent that he just couldn't receive.

His gaze returned politely to Mercy's hair, which was Matt's favorite thing to look at next to the Aug's pretty eyes. As if Mercy could read his mind, he tilted back up, shivering, and regarded Matt with a soft, sleepy expression. That would be the dyphendydramine. “How- how was your day? Was, um, work- good?”

The way he tripped through the question was adorable- it was like he had spent all day rehearsing it, but it was a fundamentally different language and he was terrified of messing up.

“Yeah- _oh_ , actually I ended back over at the Hadden building today,” Matt stretched his legs out across the floor, wishing he'd already taken off his shoes, “They finally got me the replacement parts I needed. It was so _weird_ , I only asked, like, three fucking times- but the report only had my last req. Uh. From the day you- you know. Came home with me.”

Mercy looked at his knees with inscrutable intensity, arms tight. He looked like he regretted asking, and like he was ready to scratch, judging from the manic twitch of his fingers against his neck and his leg. Matt lifted his hand out of the water to touch the Aug's leg. “Hey, that's- boring, isn't it?” Matt forced a small laugh, wanting to bring back the sunny and relaxed version of his charge. “Hey! Listen- I have good news, _really_ good, okay?”

The redhead nodded, but wouldn't quite meet Matt's eyes. He forged on: “I talked to a tech at Callaway General today. Your tests came back all good. Nothing, uh, nothing bad. Just the malnutrition thing, but we're working on that. I'm- I'm really glad, you know?' The man brought his hand back up to squeeze Mercy's knee, compulsively. “You're really going to be okay, you know?”

There was a long pause while the Aug seemed to take this information in, shutting his eyes and letting out a big breath- one that displaced the water all around him, shuffling the bubbles. The technician waited, running his thumb along Mercy's soft kneecap.

“Matt,” the Aug whispered, picking up Matt's hand from his knee and bringing it to his forehead, like Matt should take his temperature. “You're so good.”

The Aug was warm to the touch, his skin just a little damp with steam or sweat, and Matt's heart felt like it was suddenly too big for his body, pushing his lungs into his ribs. His gaze darted, wild, back to Mercy's chest, and then to his hair; the red was darker in the balmy room, wavy where it was dry. He hooked a strand of it around his first finger, feeling Mercy's lips at rest against his knuckles, against the taut lines of the tendons that worked when he pulled the strands closer. He found his voice, somehow, hiding in his throat, below his adam's apple, “Your hair is so pretty...”

Mercy blinked, biting back an obvious grin; his lips went pale to rosy as he relaxed his mouth, eyes closed against Matt's hand and wrist- in hiding.

“I knew you were good from the minute I saw you, from the _moment,_ Matt,” the redhead whispered, sliding in the water until he was curled on his side in the bubbles, like a sleepy mermaid. “I'll get out soon. Can I have... Can I have the stronger, um, sleep... stuff... I just,” he took a breath, finally releasing his hold on Matt's huge hand, “Nightmares. I just. Don't want the nightmares tonight.”

He looked away, ashamed, his arms curled tight against his chest; Matt could tell he was still having his body aches, his itchiness. He sat up and leaned against the rim of the tub, looking down on the pretty Aug. He hovered there for a moment before leaning over and kissing Mercy's temple, close to his amazing cheekbones. “Of course. I'll get it all put together for you. You must be so tired. I'll make a snack, too. Mercy...”

Looking dazed and under a diphen-spell, Mercy only looked up in vague pleasure, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth parted. He looked like a sad movie starlet from the old records, the antique black and white movies with no holo backing on them. Sad little minxes and their gangsters, doomed to artful tragedy. Matt paused as he sat back up, still within range, and felt his gaze snap to Mercy's mouth.

He was smiling very slightly, jaw relaxed. Matt remembered kissing a junior high classmate, his best friend. The classmate had had plush lips like these, with green eyes. They had been awful but Matt had loved them. It had been the one and only time, and he still wasn't sure what had happened.

It hadn't happened again. (Rey had asked a few times. Had stopped after a while, knowing the answer somehow already.)

Mercy gazed sleepily up at him, one hand curled under his cheek, the water waving back and forth in a slow current, as hypnotic as the Aug's blue expressions.

The Rails, the rebels, had taken his first love, and there was no telling where they were now. Alive? Dead? Maybe even off-world, bringing the protests to the skies.

Mercy was right in front of him, going no-where.

Matt smiled, soft, and ran one hand's fingers through the hair that floated in the water, waving to him, entreating. Beckoning. Reaching.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has to deal with Mercy's muscle memories, and tries to write some new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but it's something.

There was pressure on his hips. Matt woke, blinking in the dark, and saw Mercy perched over him, wearing his little shorts and one of Matt's old tank tops. “I'm here,” the redhead whispered, fingertips resting just so on Matt's chest.

He stopped breathing, then found his voice. “Mercy.”

“I'm here. I'm ready,” the Aug's voice was faraway, dreamy, and maybe sad.

Matt took one long, shaky breath, bringing his hands up to grip against the other man's wrists. “Mercy. You're dreaming. Hey.”

The Aug let his chin drop, hair falling around his cheeks. “Ma-Ma said. So I'm here.”

He gave a little roll of his hips and then was still, breathing deeply. Matt was trying, with every fiber of his being, not to panic. He was torn between two dark impulses; one, to heave Mercy off of him, to toss him out of his breached personal space, and two, to move his hands to the stilled hips, and encourage them to _push_ again. The latter was almost stronger, though the former was no good either. Matt hated himself for reacting, for feeling _interest_ happening, when for so long he'd sensed that system was basically offline. It wasn't fair to the Aug; he was sleep-walking, not consenting. Certainly he would be embarrassed, humiliated, to wake up and find himself in this position, molesting his caretaker.

Matt breathed in deeply again, gathering his bearings. It was late, they were both tired. Mercy had suffered so much. Matt knew he could do better than panic.

Slowly, he let his hands relax from their hold, until it was a gentler touch, more manageable. “Hey. That's okay. That's okay. Come down, you don't have to do anything.”

“Ma-Ma said...”

“I know,” Matt soothed, the distraught and desperate tone in Mercy's voice helping to kill the mild sexual interest that Matt's body had produced. “It's okay, I won't tell. Just- here, lay down. Lay down.”

Slowly, the Aug began to nod, to obey. He looked right through Matt, seeing into some dream of a memory, falsely constructed. It had only been a few weeks, Matt had to keep in mind- Mercy's trauma was still right there under the surface, always, and he didn't always hide it well. The Aug slid off of his lap and onto the empty side of the bed, frowning and, Matt saw, still a bit sexually charged. “Lay down, just rest. You don't have to do anything. Shh.”

Mercy had moved to speak, to argue, looking defeated and small. Matt pushed him gently down, until his head rested on the pillow. The Aug sniffed, bringing his fist up to hide his mouth behind. His voice was broken, a little jagged piece of glass cutting right through Matt's soul, “Do you think he'll come back? He- he was so nice.”

It was one more in a long line of questions Matt was sure he would never be able to answer. He frowned, bringing his hand back up to pet Mercy's hair. “Rest.”

The Aug obeyed, as he always did, shutting his eyes and relaxing into the mattress as though he had always been there. Matt kept petting, nostrils flared as he thought. What else was he going to do? He was exhausted, and he hated the mystery man in Mercy's memories more than he could stand. It was like being torn up to pieces, like a piece of paper: Blank except for the words, scrawled, ink fresh, _am I enough?_

 

* * *

 

  
Matt woke up early the next day, relieved that it was Friday, his first day off, and got started on food for the little crock pot he had been making more use of as of late. He was buzzing with mild, agitated energy, but was glad that Mercy was sleeping though the noise, for now. The sleep aids were helping with that much, at least. Who was the mystery man? The 'nice' man that Mercy had asked for at the beginning, and again last night? Was he real- a gang member, or another bystander? A man that taken steps for the Aug, some time ago that the Aug could no longer clearly remember?

 _Snick_ went two halves of a baby carrot, one pinballing off of the dureen granite back-splash.

Did it matter? Matt scowled as he stirred in a handful of spices he was familiar with, feeling like a crocodile with its teeth in weak prey, spinning and spinning.

The shuffle of the afghan and Mercy's other, new blanket, alerted Matt to the Aug's waking. After letting him sleep for a couple of hours in the bed, Matt had roused from dozing and carried him back to the couch. He hadn't wanted to, exactly, but he had known he needed to do it. He secured the lid on their dinner and turned to see Mercy slipping, ghostlike, into the bathroom. A few minutes later he emerged, looking tired and like he was about to be in devastating trouble. The Aug made his way to the open kitchen area and held his arms in front of himself, eyebrows furrowed.

“Good- morning. Good morning, Matt,” he mumbled, clearly going a bit red. For a split second, Matt's heart lurched into his guts, reminding him of the untoward pass Mercy had made at one thirty-eight that morning. Matt's glance went without his permission, showing the Aug's long legs, shapely and smooth. Unusually smooth. He swallowed, and Mercy went on, “I'm. Um. I have a- a really bad fucking headache. Would it be- would it be okay. Do you think. Um. Just half...?”

Matt gave a start and then nodded, heading to his bedroom and digging out the painkillers and sleep aids that he'd been instructed to hide, or better, lock up. Mercy had been really well-behaved the last week and a half, not asking for more than he knew he was supposed to have, evidently trying to abstain the best he could, even while he dealt with repeated appointments and blood tests and the temptation of being free in the world- the doors to the detox intake lab unlocked, the trains running past.

He handed Mercy a whole hydrocodone and slid him a mug of coffee before leaning on the counter and looking at the wall where the television was still in pieces, though fewer now that Mercy had made headway on his repairs. “Hey, did you know they have crocodile DNA still? In those extinction labs? They're going to try to make new ones. You know, in fake eggs and stuff.”

The Aug looked at him over the rim of his mug, regarding this information like it might bite him. “...Where are they going to put them?”

“I dunno, zoos, probably. Until they can be introduced to the wild. If they can get them to be born at all. Or hatched or whatever.”

Mercy frowned and tried to copy Matt's leaning posture, though he remained stiff and worried-looking. “I think... Maybe I've been to a zoo. A big one. Maybe.”

Matt's heart thumped. “You remember...?”

“No,” Mercy said immediately, but then closed his eyes. “Yes. There were. Birds. Hundreds of birds, lots of colors. Red, blue, green, yellow, orange.” He listed them as though he were watching from behind his eyelids, as though they were on holofilm, replaying over and over. The redhead opened his eyes, still frowning. “That's it. I can't place it. But I... I think I was there.”

There was a long pause while both men processed this tiny breakthrough, both wondering, in parallel lines, if this was the first of other memories, or perhaps revelations. Both were nervous.

“Hey,” Matt put his mug down, a little too hard, “You have to, uh, build up your strength. We're gonna do yoga. Come on, we both need to burn some energy. You'll like it.”

This he added to the vague pout that came over Mercy's lip, and then he laughed because Mercy suddenly laughed, looking like he'd been caught. He seemed shy, hiking one shoulder up to shrug, still jerky. “Okay. Okay, but I'll probably be really bad at it.”

Matt shrugged back, and then went to move the couch. “I suck, too, that's half the fun.”

They worked for the next hour- the Aug exactly as inflexible and badly balanced as he'd worried. Still, he made an effort, until the hydrocodone was making him dizzy, and he was even sweating slightly. Matt offered to play a movie on his Padd, proud and delighted. He was hoping that this, and other workout regimens he had planned, would help the Aug sleep through the night, along with improving his overall health. It was worth a shot.

And the way Mercy curled up close while the movie played, blue eyes whirring and clicking as he absorbed the story and characters and sheer _novelty_ of getting to watch a film-- that was worth something, too.

 


End file.
